The Hunger Games, Before Katniss
by Erin Rachel
Summary: This story takes place a couple years before Katniss appears. I thought I was going to quit writing this story, but I really kind of love where I'm going with the plot line. So, since I've decided to keep writing this bad boy, I'd really appreciate some reviews to keep me going. Thanks a lot fellow fanfictioners!
1. Chapter 1

_One last time_, I think to myself as I turn one, two, three times over in the warm, salty water that has constantly been my companion over the years. Men come and go, but water is always there. At least in district four, it is.

"Isla," my mother calls from on shore. "It's almost time to go. Come inside and get ready." She isn't being as rude as she usually is when she makes a request. That's natural of course. Everyone is kinder on Reaping Day.

I step slowly out of the soothing water, completely naked, and walk across the sandy shore. No one will see me this morning, and the sun feels much too nice for clothing. Any other day, Mother would shoot me for this behavior. I might as well take advantage of the times.

Even so, Mother shoves me into a robe the second she catches sight of me. "What are you thinking?" she asks angrily. "An engaged girl like you walking around like that? It's disgraceful."

"I wonder what my dearly beloved would say," I mumble with dark humor. I have always been acutely aware that I get special treatment for my appearance. Sure, I share similar features with most of the kids of my district—green eyes and golden skin. But something in the shape of my face and the curves of my body has ensured that my mother and I will not want for anything. My mom loves that about me. It's probably the only thing she loves, too. I can't say I was surprised to discover Mother had arranged a marriage, but I will openly admit to anyone who asks: I do not, nor will I ever love my fiancé. End of story.

My wedding is scheduled for next month, after my last reaping.

_One last time,_ I think again. One final day of worrying. I realize it's silly to get all worked up about this. I probably won't be selected. I have never needed to enter my name in the Reaping extra times. Sure, there's poverty in District Four, but the Capitol likes fish. That has made it possible for our people to survive far better than those skinny kids who always show up as tributes from eleven and twelve.

I run my fingers through my hair as slowly as possible, just to make Mother angry. I love to antagonize her. She can sell my body to the highest bidder, but I'll keep my soul, thank you very much.

"Give me this," Mother finally says, grabbing hold of my hair and forcing me to bend over so she can towel it. Once it's been dried to her satisfaction, she knits it into a tight bun on top of my head, which I secretly plan to undo the moment I am out of her reach.

I take a step toward our mirror when her hands leave my head. I look somewhat like a younger version of my mother, with my skin stretched against my cheek bones by the horrible bun. I looked contained. I glance back at Mother, who gives a slight nod of approval. Of course she would approve—this is exactly how she does her own hair every morning.

"Well, not that this hasn't been a blast…" I say, and then turn around to pick out a dress in my bedroom, hoping against all odds that she would not follow me. As is turns out, she doesn't have to.

"I bought a new dress for you," she informs me. "Something you can wear to impress the Braxton family." The Braxton's are the lovely family I've been sold into by good old Mother dearest.

"Thanks. I'll be sure to try it on," I say, wondering if I could get away with finishing the statement as I had originally intended: "take it off, throw it away, and put on something else." I decide I can't change my hair _and _clothes, though.

Ten minutes later, I'm wearing an itchy dress, which constricts at the neck and flows all the way down to my ankles. The saddest part is that as far as clothing from my mother goes, this one is almost bearable. I sigh, fantasizing for only a moment, of becoming a tribute. It is a silly thing to fantasize about, for sure. Not only would I die immediately, but I would be no less of a captive in an arena than I would be at home. Yet, I can't completely deny that the idea of winning is enticing. If I somehow could win, I would be able to do whatever I want. Mother would not be able to control me. I would never marry.

"Okay," I say, swatting Mother's fidgeting fingers away from my face. "I'm getting out of here. See you afterwards."

"Wait," Mother commands me.

I don't wait. I walk out of our house and straight down the cobblestone street to the city square, where the children of District Four were separated by age and gender. I'm placed in the oldest group of females. There are about thirty of us. The odds are certainly in my favor. Yet, I feel a slight twinge of jealousy for those unlucky souls to whom the odds would soon show disfavor.

Deloris Ingratos, our new Grimm Reaper (as many of us District Four inhabitants like to call them) stands on stage, introducing herself, and explaining how our previous Reaper is now retired. I pull my hair free of its constrictions as she speaks, not really paying attention, because I already know what she is saying.

In fact, I am still not paying attention when her arm digs deep into a tank which contains my name. I don't even register the name she calls when she says it the first time. She has to repeat it. But suddenly, I am paying a great deal of attention when all the other girls in my group look at me.

"Eh, _em_," Deloris clears her throat. "That was, Miss Isla Valens."

Ingratos seems to spot me amongst my peers. She waves her hand to me encouragingly. "Come along, dear. We have a tight schedule."

I don't know if I am happy or not when I walk onto the stage. I think mostly unhappy. I am going to die. That is a fact. But something evil inside me also recognizes that I am stealing my mother's livelihood by going away. And I love it.

Of course the story isn't over yet. Of course, when some fifteen year old boy is called up to join me, the universe can't just leave me well enough alone for a week. No. Of course _he _has to volunteer. That's just the way life works. Always has, always will.

So, when Johan fricking Braxton takes his place on stage next to me, I think,_ Great. I am going to kill my fiancé._


	2. Chapter 2

I hate volunteers. They mess with fate. I remember one year when all of the tributes selected were under age thirteen. Then one stupid older sibling from Seven thought he was being brave by volunteering. He was the only sixteen year old in the arena. It disturbed him so much that he stabbed himself in the heart the moment he hit the cornucopia. Now I have to deal with this idiot.

"Isla Valens and Johan Braxton!" Deloris Ingratos takes us both by the wrists and hoists our arms into the air in a symbol of victory, as if we have already won. "Shake hands, tributes, and we will be on our way," she instructs us.

I offer as little of my hand as possible to the boy. He tries to make eye contact with me as he shakes my hand, but I beam into the camera instead. If Braxton wants to tell the world about the connection we share, I really can't stop him. But I try to make it clear through my body language that I do not wish to reveal our engagement. He seems to understand, because he releases my hand and waves to the crowd. The funny thing about this is that the audience cheers back. It isn't like the citizens of the Capitol might cheer—it's more like an "I'm so glad it wasn't me" sort of cheer.

As we are shuffled into separate rooms to say our good byes, Johan keeps trying to catch my attention. "Isla," he mumbles. I pretend not to listen. We're shoved down a hallway with two red doors on either side. Johan is still saying my name when he's pushed into the door on the left and I am sent to the right. I slam my door shut before he can say anything else.

No one comes in to say good-bye to me at first. Sure, Mother hasn't ever allowed me to speak to people outside of school, but I still like to think I've made a few friends at lunch time in the school cafeteria, or on Saturdays, when I work on the fishing boats. It's enough to make my cheeks flush.

Finally, someone walks in to break the unbearable silence: a young girl from the fishing boats, named Sola. I always share my lunch with her, because she's so skinny and I have more than I need. She has tears in her eyes. She and I have never really said much, but now she runs to me and embraces me warmly.

"Hey," I say, quietly, stroking her hair. "Hush, hush. You'll be okay without me."

Sola looks into my face. "You don't have to die, you know," she tells me, wiping tears from her eyes with the back of one of her hands. "You're pretty. They like that. They will help you survive."

I smile grimly. "Yeah," I lie, "maybe I'll come back with lots of food to share at lunchtime. Sound good?" Little Sola nods, mirroring my hopeless grin.

"Times up," a peacekeeper says from the door. Sola backs out of the room without breaking eye contact with me, until the peacekeeper grabs her by the shirt and shoves her roughly down the hall.

"Hey!" shout at him, outraged. Peacekeepers have always been jerks, but this time I am particularly angry.

"What?" he asks. "What are you going to do, pretty little tribute?" I run at him, but he kicks me straight in the stomach, successfully knocking the wind out of me. He slams the door shut and I hear him say, "No more visitors for this one," from outside. I let out a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a cough.

"What do I care?" I shout to him. "I'm going to die!" Actually, I do care. I hate that I only get one visitor, but I'm not going to let him know that.

After about five minutes, three of which spent trying to catch my breath, the peacekeeper comes in and takes me by the arm. "Come along, little bitch," he says, though his grip is a little more gentle than his words. Maybe he feels guilty.

He takes me to the train's boarding area, where I see Johan. He looks calm—not anxious or sad, just… resigned. I try to duplicate his expression and hope I appear dignified.

When I go inside the train my breath is taken away for the second time in ten minutes. Everything is so lovely. I don't let it fool me, though. Every gilded edge masks an ugly core. Still, I can resist touching one of the walls, which is colored a deep burgundy. Like gems. Or blood.

"Feel free to look around if you like," I hear Deloris Ingratos say. I glance up to see that she is standing with Johan and two men, who I assume are our mentors. Most districts have a man and a woman for mentors, but our two women victors are either much too old or mentally insane. So, we get two men.

"Thank you," I say, smiling brightly.

"You can drop the act around us, hon," the man says. He has one eye; the other is covered with a patch, despite the fact that the Capitol could easily have filled the empty socket with something close to the real thing. I recognize him from mentoring in previous years: this is Lapido Pisces.

"Nice to meet you, too, Pisces," I greet him, though I drop the stupid grin. I have no reason to smile.

"Eh, you take her, Odair. I don't like her tone," Pisces tells the other mentor, who I immediately identify as Finnick Odair, winner of the 65th Hunger Games.

"Too pretty for you, Pisces?" he asks as he approaches me. "Or are you just afraid of women?" Finnick stops in front of me and does an up-down evaluation with his eyes, which makes me uncomfortable, though I try not to show it. "You are a lovely little thing, aren't you?" he mumbles.

I do my best not to straight out vomit on the man. "I suppose you would know," I reply. Finnick is well known to be the most attractive victor in all of the Hunger Games, though as I stand before him I can't say I see it. He looks too… Capitol-y, if that makes any sense.

Finnick chuckles at me a little under his breath. "Okay, Pisces. I like her."

"That's because she's just like you," Pisces informs him. That isn't exactly something I want to hear, but since Finnick is a victor, I suppose it's the best thing I can hope for.

"Isla, right?" Finnick asks me. I nod in reply. "Can you do anything special, Isla? I mean, aside from swimming. All tributes from Four can swim." I shrug.

"I work on the boats, so I'm a fair fisher. I can weave nets, make hooks, use a trident," I list off my rather un-spectacular talents. His eyebrows lift when I say trident. That's how Finnick won his games, though I'm not nearly as deadly with the thing as he was. I scramble to think of anything that would make me a good tribute to try to support. I know that mentors will sometimes abandon one tribute so that both can help the other. That's definitely not something I want.

"I'm good at traps," I lie. I know nothing about traps, actually. Finnick used net traps to capture his enemies in his games, though. Maybe I can learn to build one in training, and then it won't be such an outrageous fallacy. Pisces doesn't believe me for a moment, though.

"When did you learn to build traps in District Four?" he asks me, smiling because he's caught me.

"She's no good in hand-to-hand," the peacekeeper behind me chuckles.

"Why are you still here?" I glared at him. Finnick's eyebrows lift even higher.

"What do know about Isla's hand-to-hand?" Johan asks.

"Nothing much. All I know is that one has a bit of a temper. I had to keep her in check," the peacekeeper explains.

"You attacked a peacekeeper?" inquires Finnick.

"Not successfully, obviously."

"That's really dangerous," Johan says, as if I didn't already know.

"What are they going to do, arrest me?" I laugh.

"Maybe I should," the peacekeeper challenges.

"Okay, nobody is touching my tribute," Finnick informs the man. "Out," he points to a door. The train has already begun moving, so it's clear the peacekeeper is on the train as a guard. That doesn't mean he needs to be directly behind me the whole time. The peacekeeper looks angry, but Finnick is the Capitol's pet, so he has no authority over him.

"I'm leaving, I'm leaving," the man says, clearly disappointed.

"So," Finnick turns back to me once the peacekeeper has exited the room, "hand-to-hand is a no."

"Hey, maybe with a little training—" I start.

"You'll what?" Pisces asks. "Do you think a couple days of training are going to prepare you to fight the Careers, who have been learning to play dirty since they could grip a knife? Kiddo, you've got a lot to learn. When you go into training, your assignment is to go through the stations, find something you're good at, and master it. Got it?" I nod. Pisces' tone is stern, but that doesn't make me angry. On the contrary, I'm quite pleased. All I can think is, _Pisces gave me an assignment. I have both mentors,_ and so I listen to whatever I'm told.

"Good," Deloris chirps. "Now, go get rid of that horrible dress. I'll be surprised if you're not the most attractive competitor in the competition, but we can't have you walking around in a thing like that. You clearly aren't out of shape and peacekeepers are well-trained. I bet you could probably beat about a fourth of the other tributes in hand-to-hand right now. That's not so bad. And if you can get some good sponsors while you're here, those odds will go up for you. There's a reason they're called the_ Hunger _Games. If you're well fed, you do well, and sponsors will feed you."

I can't argue with her logic, so I ask one of the maids to help me find my room. She just nods at me, and I realize what she is; Mother had once told me that the Capitol has slaves known as Avoxes—criminals who lose their tongues as a form of punishment. I shudder, but don't say another word to the woman until we reach my door.

"Thank you," I tell her. She just looks at me sadly and walks away. _Funny,_ I think. _She is the one pitying me._ Somehow, this disturbs me more than anything else that has happened all day.


	3. Chapter 3

It turns out the train ride from Four to the Capitol isn't very long, and we make it to the training facility in time for dinner, where we are served a magnificent roast pig. One of the Avoxes attempts to serve me wine, but I've never really had a taste for the stuff. It seems Pisces doesn't either, because he sends the waiter away, demanding scotch instead.

"So," Pisces attempts to speak through a mouthful of pig and alcohol. A chunk falls from his mouth and lands on Deloris Ingratos' napkin, subsequently causing her to lose her appetite. "Johan… why exactly are you here? Don't tell me you actually wanted to go into this thing."

Johan looks up from his third helping of pig—we don't get much other than seafood where we come from. "The boy who was selected… his older brother is my best friend, Munroe. Munroe just had his birthday a couple days before the Reaping, so he was no longer eligible. He made me swear I would volunteer if any of his brothers got picked. He would have done the same for me if our roles were switched."

"Ah, so you're the noble type," Ingratos observes. "We can use that." I snort. It wasn't intentional, I just struggle with the idea of a noble Braxton—particularly the one I had been sold to. I look down at my dinner and hope no one heard, but of course everyone did.

"What's so funny about that, Isla?" Johan asks me harshly. It's clear he doesn't consider his situation a laughing matter, which it isn't.

"I don't know. Nothing, I guess. You Braxtons are so self-sacrificial," I answer. I regret saying it the moment the words come out. Now everyone at the table will be suspicious of our story. I'll be forced to tell the world all about our engagement.

Johan stands up, shaking the table. "What do you know about self-sacrifice? You've never had to worry about anything."

"If you haven't noticed, we're in the Hunger Games. I'm a tad worried right now, actually!" Now _I'm_ standing. The injustice of it all! "And being sold off to the highest bidder isn't exactly fun either! You know, being selected for the Games isn't much worse than being married to you would be—I'd still fantasize about wringing your neck."

"Whoa, who said anything about marriage?" Finnick asks.

"Shh, just watch and enjoy." Pisces sits back in his chair, clearly entertained by the argument.

"Do you think _I _wanted to marry _you_? Isla, I don't even know you. I didn't just pick you out of a crowd and beg my father for you. Life just doesn't work like that. Not even for a Braxton." Johan turns around and storms into the hallway, leaving me standing awkwardly at the table with two mentors, an escort, and a roast pig. Unable to think of anything better to do, I sit back down and cram food in my mouth until Deloris breaks the silence.

"So… I gather you two are engaged?" She says.

"Correct," I confirm.

"And you didn't see fit to inform us of these interesting circumstances."

"Two for two," I tell her.

"Why?"

"Because it isn't important. It isn't like we're star-crossed lovers. We've hardly ever even spoken to one another. All I know is my mother and _his_ parents struck a deal which basically allowed for my mom to make a great deal of money and for Johan to get a bride. I hope mother hasn't spent it all, because they're probably demanding a refund by now."

"It doesn't really matter whether the two of you know each other. What matters is that you are engaged. The audience is going to eat this up!" Deloris is now giddy. I start panicking, because this is exactly what I _don't_ want to happen.

"No!" I attempt to stop her in her tracks. "No, Deloris. If I am going to die, it's going to happen on my terms. No one can know about this. Swear to me you will tell no one!"

"Sweetheart, you don't have to die if we use this right. This could be your ticket to survival."

"Look, publicity can only get a girl so far in the games," I say. "Deloris, I do _not_ want to die as the girl in love. I've seen it done before in the Games, it's always pathetic."

"That's because the girl in love is never fighting against the boy in love. We've had engaged kids before, but never both halves of the couple. This year will be different," Deloris continues to argue. I can feel my desires being crushed by the weight of her eager plotting.

"Deloris, you have to respect the wishes of the tribute." Finnick comes to my aid. I'm beginning to see why the Capitol likes him. He's not so bad.

"Yeah, respect my wishes."

"That doesn't mean I think it's wise," Finnick tells me. Never mind, the Capitol can have him. "This really could save your life. If Pisces and Johan decide to use the information and we don't, they could get the better advantage."

"I'll just tell everyone I hate him and I was forced into the engagement," I inform him. I know it's childish, but I can't think of any other way to discourage Pisces from forming a plan. I can tell he's listening intently.

"That isn't such a bad idea, actually," Pisces says, stopping me in my tracks.

"I… I don't understand. You want me to make your tribute out to be a villain?"

"No, no, no, of course not. You don't even need to mention your betrothal. However, you could insult the other tributes—tell the audience what you think of them. The Capitol's opinions are fleeting. They move around with whoever is most popular. Make the other tributes out to be stupid, boring. I know, it's cruel, but negative attacks work. The people of the Capitol don't need to love you more—they just need to like the others less. The victory march is tomorrow night. Your stylist will do his best to make you gorgeous. Once you're on the radar, the audience will listen to what you have to say in the interview. That's when you'll explain the downfalls of the other competitors, got it?" I nod as if I am engrossed in what he is saying, but all I can think of is steering him away from the engagement. It seems, for the moment, as if the issue has been put to bed. But everything wakes up eventually. I am cautious for the rest of the night, since Deloris looks like she wants to cry.

When I curl up in my bed after dinner, I fall asleep almost immediately. My dreams are filled with wedding dresses and victory march stylists. Wouldn't it be just perfect if I could be dressed as a beautiful bride?

The next morning, however, I must remind myself that very few people know I was meant to be married. Instead, I will be turned into a fisher, or even a fish. I have seen both done. One year, the tributes were covered in nothing but netting. Most stylists think less is more when it comes to the Games. Some of them have been sick enough to dress down even twelve year olds.

I am led into a large room with a metal table, which is surrounded by devices which are undoubtedly intended for my torture. If only they could bring a quick and painless death.

"Lay down," says a woman from the Capitol with neon orange eyes, blue skin, and swirling gold tattoos around her bald skull. I nod and do as she says. "Your prep team will be here in a moment. Please wait." With this, the woman begins to exit the room. Just as she reaches the threshold of double doors, she turns around and opens her mouth, as if considering her words.

"You are truly beautiful. For a tribute, that is. I wish you luck," she finally spits, before fleeing the room. I wonder if she would have wished me luck if it hadn't been for my appearance. I look to a set of tools near my perch. They are metal and sharp. I don't know what they are supposed to do, but I guess I'll find out soon. These are the tools that could take me from being "beautiful for a tribute" to being attractive to this woman. I am not good enough without them.

Anger swells inside me. I am just fine the way I am. The cat whiskers and skin dyes and tattoos are freakish. True beauty is to be human. These Capitol people are always trying to look more than that, but the reality is that if you change your state, you are only fooling yourself. Everyone knows that woman's skin was not naturally blue. It's disgusting that she wants to change. She's just like my mother.

That's when it hits me. I have been raised for the Games all my life. It isn't that my mother intended for me to become a tribute. The reality is, my life back home was just as much a beauty contest as it is now, as I face my death. Life as a tribute is exactly the same as life in District four, just condensed. There is no escape from here. There is no escape from there. We are all doomed to one fate, and one alone.


	4. Chapter 4

Nudity does not bother me. What bothers me is when eyes linger, as if a body is not just a body, but something to own. I do not belong to myself in the Capitol. I belong to a group of specialists who like to tear and dye and trim and paint until I fit their desires.

"You're perfect," the bald man with a jewel-inlaid scalp tells me after four straight hours in the Remake Center, though he only talks to me as an artist would speak to a canvas. I wait a moment to see if they will hand me a mirror, but they don't, so I sit up from my chair, stiff from lack of movement and look around for a reflective surface. A metal cart has been rolled near to my seat and I look at my image in it.

"I don't look like myself," I say, touching my cheek. It's smooth as silk. My bronze hair shimmers unrealistically. My lips also shine, though at least they are their natural color. I move my eyes all down my body and see that there is not a single hair left. They have scraped me clean.

"You were okay before. You're gorgeous now. Just look at your eyes," says a woman with unnaturally long fingers. Finally, she hands me a mirror while I wonder if it is possible to surgically extend your fingers, and if so, what would the purpose be. I zero in on my eyes and see what she was saying. My green eyes sparkle, framed by long lashes that are not my own. My eyelids are green as well, which I don't understand because not even the most beautiful woman on earth could be born with colorful eyelids.

"It's wonderful!" I gush, hoping this is what they want, though containing my desire to dive into the nearest bathtub and undo all their hard work. "Thank you, so much."

The third specialist appears to be tearing up. Her skin is so stretched and dyed that I can't tell how old she is. Her burgundy lips quiver. "I think it's our best work yet," she finally says, right before bursting into sobs over her masterpiece.

_It's_, I can't help but think. _It's our best work yet_. I can't bring myself to feel insulted. This woman probably thinks of me as a member of the human species about as much as I think of her as one, so I might as well be an "it" to her.

"I think it's time to get Venus," the bald specialist say, also a bit misty eyed.

"Of course," the other two agree. They walk away, casting glances back in my direction and mumbling things amongst themselves but not so much as giving me a good bye, or better yet, a good luck. Minutes later, a woman enters my room.

Or is she a woman? I can't be sure. Her hair is flaming red—I mean, I've seen red heads before, but this hair is not a pleasant orange-ish color. It's actually bright, horrible red. She has matching red cat whiskers and her body is so absent of curvature that I am simply left to assume her gender by her name: Venus, a name which I can't stop myself from thinking is slightly ironic, since Venus is the goddess of beauty.

She looks me up and down for a few minutes, saying nothing so I begin to wonder whether she/he/it speaks at all. Finally, I break down and say, "So?"

Her head snaps to my face and she grins similarly to the perpetual grin of a fox. "My associates did well," she informs me in a low, quiet, but unmistakably feminine voice. "Do you know what my partner and I have decided to dress you as?"

Of course I do not know. How could I know? What a ridiculous question. I shake my head.

"Seaweed. We are turning you into seaweed," Venus says excitedly. I wonder if she's joking because she is still grinning and seaweed is such a stupid thing to be turned into that I dearly hope it is a joke. She pulls out a leather bag with the hook of a hanger sticking out one end. I start to panic. I would prefer to ride through the city center in nothing at all than to look like a stupid chunk of seaweed.

For the next hour I try my best not to look at myself as I am dressed in a stringy greenish-brown dress which barely reaches halfway down my thighs. My prep team re-enters my room at some point and starts painting sparking green and blue swirls along my legs and arms. Streaks of sea-colored dyes are added into my hair before it is pulled messily back to reveal my glittery face.

Finally, Venus steps back from me and studies me. Though my prep team has begun tearing up at the sight of their work again, she just sighs. "Something is missing."

The long fingered woman gasps. "What could possibly be missing?"

Venus taps her finger to her lips in thought for a moment. "Smile," she tells me. I almost want to gag. She won't be satisfied until I am a happy underwater plant? I beam at her, hoping she'll catch my sarcasm, but she does not. Instead she just says, "Smile a little less widely. Yes, there you go. Wonderful. You'll blow them away."

"Stunning," says the man with the bejeweled head.

"Absolutely gorgeous," says the woman with burgundy lips.

"You've outdone yourself, Venus," the long-fingered woman tells my stylist. They have again forgotten to offer me a mirror, which is okay with me. I'm not entirely sure I want to see.

The four of them are still looking at me when Finnick comes into my room. "Time to go to the stables, kiddo," he informs me. I almost cry out in relief, but I catch myself and thank my stylists before running out of the room. I want to make a good impression on everyone—who knows what rich sponsors these people can bring me? "Are you excited for the Victory Tour?"

I let out a noise somewhere in between a laugh and a snort. "Were you?"

Finnick smils. "Yes. I was an idiot in my younger years. I didn't understand the Capitol. I just knew the citizens loved me and I was about to become famous. But for a tribute from Four, that wasn't unusual. You're the unusual one. What's your story, anyway? Usually, kids from Four are always gunning to join the Careers and that sort of thing."

He looks at my face and his smile melted away. "Maybe I'm just not that excited to die," I tell him, hoping this will shut him up. I don't want to talk about my past, and since I'm not too fond of the present, and a future is slim to nonexistent, I don't particularly want to talk about the Games at all.

"Look kid," Finnick begins. We're nearing the stables, so I start to walk faster. Maybe this way I can avoid most of what he's trying to say. Finnick grabs my arm, preventing me from forward motion. I jerk back and stare into his eyes. My own are beginning to fill with hot tears.

"Let me go. We wouldn't want to ruin Venus' nice work."

"Just let me say something," he demands. I pry my arm free, though I stay impatiently. "You're a kid from Four," he begins.

"Really? I didn't know," I say,

"Shut up," he advises me. "Kids from Four swim as a way of life, and have the means to catch food on a daily basis. If you have the drive to survive, nothing can stop you. You just need to be clever. Are you clever?" I say nothing. Finnick sighs. "Okay. Go on, get in your chariot. Try not to look so morose. Sponsors don't like it when pretty girls cry."

I turn and walk to the stables, but stop at the last moment. "Finnick?" I say.

"Yeah?" he says.

"I am. Clever, that is. I don't want to die," I tell him, sounding childish.

"They never do," he laughs. My cheeks turn up a little as I start to see the dark humor of it all.

"Will you help me live?"

"That depends. Are you going to get me some sponsors?"

"Yes," I say, then adjust my face into a perfect smile as I walk to my chariot and take my place next to Johan, who is also dressed in greens, though less than me because he is not wearing a shirt. His skin is painted similarly to mine and as the chariot starts moving, light begins to reflect off our glitter. I feel disgusting, but I give the crowd my all.

"You are the best looking seaweed I have ever seen," Johan mumbles to me out of the corner of his mouth while the drunk citizens of the Capitol scream our names.

I chuckle, and am pleased to find that it isn't because I'm trying to get on his good side. "You know," I say, as the chariot pulls to a stop and we face President Snow for his speech and the anthem, "we don't need to be enemies. Not yet, anyway."

Johan looks studies my face. "You mean you want to be allies? With a Braxton? I never would have guessed."

"Don't get too excited. I'm still going to wring your neck," I tease. Coming from a bigger opponent, this wouldn't be funny. But as he has about seventy-five pounds and about a foot of height on me, there is just about zero possibility of this happening.

"What brought on the change of heart?" he asks.

"I'm just trying to be smart. I thought, 'I need to be business-like about this. What would the owner of the most powerful fish-cannery say in this situation?'" I say this because the Braxton family is famous for providing the Capitol with delicious canned fish soups.

"I don't know," Johan says. "I suppose you can ask my father when you get back, since you obviously aren't going to die now. The crowd loved you."

"I am a plant. What's not to love? Besides, they cheered for you as much as me. There's no reason why I should live and you should die." As I say this, I am beginning to hate myself. I have just determined that I am going to do my best to win. Why should I encourage him? I clear my throat. "Anyway, we both look like freaks. The minute I get within reach of a shower, I am washing this craziness off of me."

President Snow seems to have finished speaking and the chariots begin moving back into the stables.

"You shouldn't. Crazy suits you," Johan informs me with a little laugh.

"Oh, thanks. I'll keep that in mind in the arena."

Johan's eyes narrow. "You seem eager."

"Hardly," I reply. "I just made the decision not to lay down and be defeated."

"Funny," Johan replies.

"Why?" I ask.

"It's just that… I made that decision too."


	5. Chapter 5

After the Victory Tour, Johan and I tentatively agree to train together. We will share our secrets with each other, so that when we reach the arena we are bound to one another. Not that I really have any secret abilities, but I do like to have an ally.

"Can you shoot?" Johan asks me as we walk to the elevator which will lead us down to the Training Center. It's our first day and we still don't know what our talents are. We've been bouncing questions like these back and forth to each other during any free moment.

"Never tried. Maybe. Can you?" I return.

"I've only tried a couple of times. For recreation when I was younger. Before the Braxtons' money ran out and we couldn't afford fun," he informs me. I can't help but chuckle grimly when he says this.

"The money ran out? Then what on earth was I engaged to you for?" I ask, though I can guess the answer.

"Yeah, it ran out. I might as well tell you, now that the wedding's off. My parents assumed your father left you some money when he died. Our family has been floundering for years, barely on the edge of shutting down the cannery. My older sisters both got married at young ages, too, in the hopes of hitting a payday. No luck," Johan explains as the elevator doors shut. I hate the elevator. It feels like a prison, which seems a little redundant, since the entire Training facility is a prison inside the Capitol, which just so happens to also feel like a prison.

"My mom spent my dad's money in a year. We had nothing," I say, trying not to pay attention to the solid metal doors which enclosed me in this tight space.

"That's District Four for you. Everyone is selling their kid to some rich family, only to discover that they've hit a dud." Johan glances around for a moment as if to check if anyone is listening to our conversation. This seems like a silly thing to do, as we are on an elevator, but I don't point this out. "You know what I heard?"

Yes, I do. He probably heard that the District lost its wealth because of the unrest in the Capitol. People have been buying less stuff. Some people say that when times get tough, the citizens of the Capitol hoard food like squirrels for the winter. Now, our proverbial winter has come, and the hoarding is over. The incredible cash flow we had before has completely dissipated, and we no longer remember how to live without the money. So we marry, and hope to find a jackpot.

Saying these things out loud is treasonous, though, so I just nod. We can't risk getting caught on camera speaking words against the mighty Capitol.

_Level One, Hunger Games Training Center_, a cool female voice informs us as the door opens. I want to run from my enclosure, but what's the point? I would simply be running into another prison.

"Can you fight hand-to-hand?" I ask Johan. He smirks.

"My dad made me join the wrestling team at school. I'm horrible at it," he informs me.

"Maybe, maybe not. At least you have a basic knowledge about fighting people up close. If you carry a knife…" my thoughts turn toward knives. Why hadn't I thought of it before? "Knives," I say as my gaze falls onto a table full of the shiny metallic objects.

"What about them?" Johan asks.

"Sometimes there's a surplus of fishers and not enough gutters at the cannery," I start to explain, feeling excited. Perhaps there is hope after all. "Fishers always carry gutting knives to work just in case they're asked to gut the fish instead. At the end of the work day, sometimes people like to blow off steam at the Tavern. I go there to avoid my mom." Johan's face still appears confused, so I carry on with my explanation. "When some of the gutters get nice and drunk, they use a dart board to have knife throwing competitions. I always won. Of course, I was never drunk, but I can hit a target. I know I can."

"Well, great. Teach me," Johan says, walking toward the knife table.

"Wait," I tell him, grabbing his shoulder to stop him. He turns and faces me. I'm nervous that knives are my only skill, and if I use it now I'll be completely predictable in the arena. Then I remember that I have an ally. He needs to know knives and my stopping him from practicing would not benefit either of us. I release his shoulder. "Okay, yeah, let's go."

Johan grins. "What? Are you nervous that I'll be better than you?"

"A little," I admit. "Mostly I'm scared that they'll be watching," I say, not even bothering to point toward the group of careers that I know is quickly forming behind us.

"Good," Johan tells me. Let them see that we're united and we're strong."

"That's a horrible idea. They'll see us as a threat and try to kill us first," I counter.

Johan sighs. "Well, here's another idea. You go train at the edible plants while the knife instructor teaches me how to properly wield those weapons. Then we'll meet up at hand-to-hand afterward. Deal?"

I consider this a moment. Maybe splitting up for now isn't the worst plan. We could scope out the competition at different stations. "Deal," I agree.

I leave Johan at the knives and walk to the plants, where the instructor is happy to teach me all the edible parts of a pine tree. I am in the middle of distinguishing a blueberry from a Capitol-engineered berry, which would result in a painful death, when the boy from District One approaches me.

"Hey, Four," he nods his head toward me. I can see by his face he's trying to look charming. I don't like it. "You looked pretty good at the Victory Tour. For seaweed."

The mention of seaweed catches the attention of our instructor, who delves into the subject of nutritional water plants. I know I can ace this, so I turn my attention to the District One boy. His eyes and his hair are as black as the coal mined in District Twelve. His skin is olive toned. Most people from One have blonde hair and blue eyes, so his appearance is rather unusual, though not unattractive.

"Oh, well, thanks. I didn't see yours. Sorry," I apologize in the least apologetic way possible.

The boy smiles mischievously. "You didn't need to see it to know how we looked." This much is true. District One is always glittery, skimpy, and downright breathtaking. District Four usually does well, but it's District One that takes the cake for costumes more often than not.

I sit in silence. I don't want to talk to this boy, since I intend to outlive him, if not kill him. He seems to have other ideas, though, because he's talking within five minutes. "You know, just because we're going to die doesn't mean we have to act dead already. You and I could form a very mutually beneficial team," he informs me. For the first time I look directly at him and I see in his eyes that he is less interested in me as an ally than he is as a fun toy.

"Tempting, but I think I'd prefer death," I tell him.

"Cold." He winks at me. "Don't worry. You'll see it my way in the end." There's that mischievous grin again. Great. I've made myself a target.

"Hey," Johan says from behind me, "I thought we were going to meet up at hand-to-hand…" He sees the way I'm looking at the boy from District One and pauses. "Everything okay here?"

I turn my face away from the boy and face Johan. "Yeah," I say, somewhat breathlessly. "I just lost track of time. Let's go." I stand up. Unfortunately, so does One.

"It was nice to meet you…" He waits for me to supply a name, but I don't give it. He lowers his hand, which had been poised to shake. "Nice to meet you, Mrs. Four," he finally says. "I meant what I said. If you ever get," his eyes shift to Johan, "bored. Find me."

"I'll keep that in mind," I say, hoping he recognizes the sarcasm. In no way will I go searching for the menacing boy from District One.

One smiles widely this time and nods at Johan. "Mr. Four."

"What was that all about?" Johan asks when One is out of sight.

"I have absolutely no idea," I say evasively. "Hand-to-hand?"

Johan stares in One's general direction for a moment, before shaking his head. "Yeah, let's go."

The rest of the day I can't help but think of this crazy boy. I am quite convinced that given the opportunity, he would not hesitate to attack me. Luckily for him, there will be opportunities of plenty in a matter of days.

When I go to hand-to-hand with Johan I can hear some of the stand-ins that had been supplied by the Capitol for sparring talking about one of their co-workers.

"He nearly killed him," says one.

"Who?" says a wide-eyed woman.

"The tribute from District One. He took him down in seconds. He started to strangle him."

"I'd bet on that boy."

I can't resist. I have to say something. I pull the wide-eyed woman aside on the pretext of sparring. That's when I ask. "What is the name of the boy from District One?"

"Don't you know?" she asks me, as if this is the silliest thing in the world. "It's Alexander Mortemlator. Everyone knows his name in the Capitol, though I suppose you would have no reason to know his name, since you won't be placing bets on the winner."


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next day of training, I learn a great deal of valuable information. For example, I learn various snares at the knot tying station. The Trainer there seems partial to kids from District Four, since we know our knots so well. I also learn that the girl and the boy from District Eleven are brother and sister. Apparently the sister was chosen, and since the brother could not take her place, he decided to die protecting her. As far as opponents go, I am certain these two will not last long.

"Observing anything special?" I ask Johan as we pass by each other. He is heading to knives, which I am just leaving.

"Well, you are getting much better at throwing those things," he informs me. I smile, but this quickly turns to a grimace when I remember why I need the practice.

"That isn't what I meant," I say. "What do you know about the other tributes?"

"Not much. The career pack is taking shape—it looks like the girl from One and both from Two. I think the Boy from Seven is trying to get in with them, but he won't last long," Johan tells me. "Oh, and that eccentric boy from One keeps looking at you."

As if to prove Johan's claim, I glance at Alexander. He winks at me.

"Okay, that isn't normal human behavior. What's going on between you two?" Johan asks. I briefly consider telling him it's nothing, but I now have a target on my back, and Johan is my ally, so I really ought to explain myself.

"He sort of gave me a proposition. Which I declined," I say, hoping this will be enough of an explanation. Based on the quizzical face Johan makes, it isn't.

"What sort of proposition?" he inquires.

"Oh, what did he call it? A 'mutually beneficial relationship,' I think."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Figure it out, Johan," I say through gritted teeth. "He obviously doesn't need me for protection. What could I possibly give him in return for the security he could provide me with?"

"Oh…" is all Johan can seem to say. After a moment, he collects himself and stands up a little straighter. "That makes me angry."

"Does it?" I ask, frustrated. "Because there's really nothing we can do about it, and your end goal is to survive. So, really, this is a good thing for you. Congratulations." I speak quickly, hoping to say everything that must be said before I start hyperventilating. It's no use. I'm beginning to gasp, and I don't want to draw attention, so I turn away, thinking I'll give the camouflage station a go.

"Wait," Johan says. I don't reply, so he just follows me in silence. He accompanies me like this for the rest of the day, and I appreciate it, which just confuses me. I don't think I could bear to kill him at this point.

Finally, by the end of the day, I have to say something. "Thank you," I begin. "You've been a good ally and I haven't been any help to you at all. What are you going to do in the private session tomorrow?"

Johan smiles sheepishly. "I haven't the slightest idea."

"Well, we're just going to have to figure that out, aren't we?"

"Look, Isla, I know what you're trying to do, and I'm grateful for it. But you don't owe me or anything. I was just being friendly, since we're supposed to have each other's backs and all," he tells me.

"So let me have your back," I counter. "If you're allowed to help me, then I'm allowed to help you."

"A mutually beneficial relationship," he chuckles. I immediately elbow him in the gut. It's just a playful gesture, but one of the peacekeepers sees it and yells at me.

"HANDS OFF THE OTHER TRIBUTES!"

Suddenly, Johan and I are getting looks from all around the training center. Alexander walks over, and I suddenly think of how "hands off" might be misunderstood. I curse under my breath.

"Oh, I see why you don't want to be allies," Alexander tells me. Johan glares at him. "I'm not so worried about it, though. Like I said, sooner or later, you'll see things my way."

"Sooner or later, I'm going to vomit," I inform him.

"Maybe you would feel less nauseated if you took a step back from Mr. Four over there. He's not a pleasant view up close," Alexander says.

At this, Johan does something completely unexpected. He laughs. "Sorry," he says through chuckles. "It all seems a little petty, given we'll probably all be dead in a couple weeks tops."

Alexander grins, like he's just understood the joke. I still don't think it's very funny. "Well, two of us will at least. See you in the Games." Instead of walking around us to reach the door, Alexander walks between us, simultaneously getting uncomfortably close to me and patting Johan on the back.

"HANDS OFF THE OTHER TRIBUTES!" The peacekeeper repeats. Alexander raises his hands in mock resignation.

"My apologies," Alexander tells me. He walks backwards for a few steps, his hands still raised in the air. He winks again just before he turns around and exits the room.

I want to shudder. I want to puke. I don't, though, because there are still a lot of other tributes in the room, watching for a reaction. I hold my head up high and move forward at a steady pace, Johan following closely behind me. We don't say a word until we're safely on the Fourth floor—our floor.

"That was… disturbing," says Johan.

"Yes, it was," I agree. "But that's all the more reason why we need to figure out what you're good at. Our scores are going to change the opinions of the other Tributes, for better or for worse."

We don't get sharp objects except for during meals, and even then, we're closely monitored. They don't want us to kill ourselves when the cameras aren't rolling. Where would the fun in that be? So, instead of practicing knife throwing, we decide to practice hand-to-hand. It's challenging for me, since I'm not exactly stronger than Johan, but unfortunately, this does not help my ally. After about an hour, he gives up.

"What's the use?" he asks. "I'm not going to become a good enough fighter to beat the careers or the District One boy in a matter of hours… particularly while I'm fighting you." I look at him pointedly. "No offence," he amends.

"None taken. I'm horrible at hand-to-hand. And you're right; we need to approach this differently," say. "But I have no idea how."

"How about failing?" asks a voice from the door. I glance over and see that Pisces has been watching us.

"How would that help anything?" I'm about to blow him off when I understand what he's trying to say. "You want us to look non-threatening?"

"You _are_ non-threatening," Pisces says. "If you appeared otherwise, you would attract enemies with skill sets far greater than yours. If you get a low score, maybe they'll leave you alone longer."

"That won't work," Johan informs him. "We've already attracted them."

Pisces' head tilts to the side, like he's weighing those words carefully. "Maybe if you look bad enough, they'll forget about you."

"That's unlikely," I say.

"It's this approach or death!" Pisces spits, clearly irritated. I back off, and Pisces storms past us toward his room.

"Wow," I mumble, when he's out of hearing range.

"He's coached a lot of kids. Most of them have died," Johan says, justifying the outburst with these words.

"I think I'd prefer his approach," I tell Johan, because the alternative does not sound very fun.

"Me, too. So, what? I'll just walk into the private training session, show off my utter mediocrity, and leave?"

"What could go wrong?" I ask.

"It's the Hunger Games," Johan replies. "Everything."


	7. Chapter 7

Since we decide that we want bad scores in private training, there's really nothing more to do except wait. Johan and I glance at each other's faces for a moment, and we seem to make the decision without actually speaking that we would like to spend a few ours in private. We both retire to our bedrooms.

I haven't really looked around my room much, and I quickly learn how to operate a few of the room's different control panels. One of them controls my bed. The sheets change from feeling silky smooth to the rough texture of cloth in District Four at the touch of a button. I'm sure they're actually a fiber manufactured in the Capitol, and neither silk, nor any other fabric. Still, I can't deny the comfort I take in changing the shape and feel of my bed until it's just like the one at home.

I lie in my bed and snack on dried cranberries—a delicacy I have only recently discovered—watching old Hunger Games on the wall on the opposite side of my room, which I have determined to be a large screen. It isn't that I want to watch kids like me tear each other's throats out. It's simply a way to study up, since I'm apparently ill-equipped for the task at hand. Regardless, I start to feel sick after getting through years twenty-six through thirty. I'm starting to regret the cranberries when there's a tap at my door.

"Isla," Johan's voice comes from out in the hall. "Can I come in?"

"Just a second," I say, scrambling to hit the button I think shuts off the screen. Instead, the channel switches to some Capitol fashion show, in which the models are not walking to show off their clothes, but rather the newest additions to their bodies. I press more buttons. The volume goes up and down, the image zooms in and out, but the screen does not go black. I decide to settle for making the show as quiet as possible before I open the mahogany door.

"Yeah?" I ask, not realizing until too late that this sounds rude and impatient. I'm about to correct myself, but then I start wondering why it matters whether I sound rude to him. Then I'm just confused.

"I…" Johan begins. His face seems to sink at my rough greeting. "I just wanted to know if we could talk until dinner. You know… strategize. And I…" his voice trails off, so I finish the sentence in my head: _I don't want to be alone anymore_. The truth is, I don't like it either, but the alternative is to become friends with the person I hated even before I was forced to fight him to the death. Neither choice is ideal.

"Um, okay," I say, though it isn't really okay. Nothing is okay, but I open my door a little wider and welcome him inside.

Johan catches sight of the TV screen. "Wow," he says. "Some of the guys back home said you were shallow, and I believed them, until I met you. So what are you doing watching fashion shows?"

I consider his words a moment, but answer honestly in the end. "I was watching reruns of the Games. I tried to shut it off when you knocked, but instead I just got this," I gesture toward the screen. A green eyed beauty walks down the catwalk wearing nothing but a diamond studded birthday suit.

"Are you attracted to that?" The words slip from my lips before I realize what's happening. Without really thinking, we both plop down on my bed like two pals. There's nothing romantic in it. Just the mutual desire to survive.

"In a way, yes," Johan replies. "Like bird watcher is attracted to a beautiful, exotic bird. It's lovely to look at, but it isn't my kind."

I ponder this, and decide that this is exactly how I feel. I don't want to say anymore, because we're probably being watched. But another part of me knows that I'm dead no matter what I say, so I might as well confide in another dead man walking. "There's something wrong with this world," I say.

Johan chuckles. "Do you think so?"

I nod. "I know so."

"Then go and fix it up, Doctor Isla," he replies.

I look at him sadly. "We both know I'll never get the chance."

Johan sighs. "That makes two of us. But we can at least get rid of that imbecile from District One before we go. I'm not dying in that arena with the knowledge that he's still alive. Especially if he's alive _and _you're alive. That's just a bad combination."

"You know what, ally?" I say, sincerely regretting all of the horrible things I have thought about this boy. "One of us needs to make it out alive. I'd like it if you lived almost as much as I'd like it if I lived."

"Agreed," he informs me. Then after a long pause, he adds, "Wait. Before you say that, I need to tell you something."

I look at him with curiosity, but not with fear. "What?"

"I wasn't being totally truthful when I said I promised that boy's brother I would volunteer in his stead."

"What do you mean?" I ask, now thoroughly confused.

"I volunteered…because of you," he admits. I back away, and Johan seems to notice this, so he jumps into an explanation as fast as possible. "Look, I was my parents' last hope for wealth. I needed to marry you. When you got picked, I looked over at my mom, and she made eye contact with me. Her eyes were so cold, so calculating. I knew that if I couldn't make money by marrying you, I'd have to make money by killing you. My mom and dad expected me to die trying to regain our family's fortune. They wouldn't be able to stand the sight of me if I hadn't volunteered."

"Then get out of their sight," I say, so frustrated I stand up. I don't particularly feel like sitting next to my ally at this time. "Leave your family behind. What can they offer you, anyway? Nothing. But don't _volunteer_! Of all the idiotic-"

"I had to," Johan cuts me off. "I thought that if anyone was going to understand, it would be you. Why do you stay with your mother after all she's put you through?" His words are like a punch to the gut. Nobody asks this question. I don't even ask it of myself, because I can't stand the answer.

"Because... I love her still," I mumble. I nearly choke on the words; they're so difficult to say. Johan just nods, like he expected nothing less.

"They hate me. They'd rather see me die. And the truth is, I'd rather see myself die, too, if the other choice is to be shunned by my family. But now… now I can't stand either world. I don't want to have to kill you, and I don't want to lose my family."

"You don't have the luxury of choosing anymore. You made up your mind when you volunteered. End of story," I say coldly. Johan's eyes sink. He knows the truth.

Just as Johan's mouth opens, as if to offer more words, though his words have been more like daggers lately, there's another short rap at my door.

"Come on, children, it's dinner time. Don't be late," commands the voice of Deloris Ingratos. So we stand up, walk out of my room, and act like we never said anything to each other, but reality is still there. I know now that Johan is my enemy, and even more disturbing, my friend.


	8. Chapter 8

The morning of private training comes swiftly. I've decided to treat Johan as if he never told me his true motivation for volunteering for the Games. After all, whether he is sacrificing himself for his friend's brother, or for his family's fortune, he's still an idiot. Nothing has really changed.

"So what are you going to do?" he whispers into my ear while we wait patiently for our turns in private training. Both the girls and boys from Districts One and Two have performed their secret skills before the gamemakers, as well as the girl from Three. Currently, the only thing that separates me from a panel of crazed Capitol officials is the boy from District Three, and I know he's about to be dismissed from his session soon enough.

"Throw knives, I think," I murmur back to Johan. He gives me a look, so I clarify, "Not well, of course. I'm not very good as it is, but I'll try particularly hard to miss today."

He smirks grimly. "Don't doubt yourself. You've gotten quite good at it. At least you _have_ a talent to hide. I won't even be pretending to be bad at things. I'm just mediocre naturally."

I want to contradict him badly, but I can't very well convince him otherwise, when I can't think of anything in which he excels. Finally, I just settle on, "You've got a talent. I'm sure you do. We just haven't found it yet." I realize how pathetic this sounds the moment it passes from my lips, but I can't think of anything else to say, so I just let my words hang in the air. It seems Johan doesn't have the energy to make fun of me. I understand this all too well. Facing down imminent death is exhausting.

"So, what are you planning on doing in there?" I ask, curious to know how he intends to waste the gamemakers' time. They clearly have far too much of it on their hands anyhow.

"I think I might use a slingshot. I haven't used one in a long time, but one Reaping Day when I was young, my father bought me one. I used to go outside and shoot at the squirrels in the trees. I even got pretty good at it, up until it broke."

"Have you practiced with one since we got here?"

"I never got the chance," Johan replies. "So many things seemed more important."

I smile at him, but I know it won't reach my eyes. I won't tell him things will be okay when I believe with all my heart that they won't. Still, Johan smiles back. He grabs my hand and squeezes it quickly as he says, "Good luck, ally."

A woman pokes her head out of the door of the training room and calls my name.

"I don't need luck to throw badly," I reply.

"True. The worst of luck to you, ally," he amends as I stand up and follow the woman into the training room.

I feel somewhat happy when I look upon the panel of gamemakers. The sight of them drains me of this feeling immediately. So few of them even notice my entrance. I, Isla Valens of District Four, ought to demand their attention. Not only am I from a District which consistently produces winners, but I was the most popular of all the tributes in the Victory Tour. Surely, they intend to watch me when I introduce myself.

I clear my throat loudly. A couple more of the gamemakers look at me. "Isla Valens, District Four," I inform them in a clear, yet somewhat shaky voice. If this is the case for District Four, I can hardly imagine what the panel must be like for Eleven and Twelve, with bored, half-drunk judges.

I walk to the knives as planned, but I suddenly feel as if I need to defend myself against these people. I grab three knifes that are roughly the same size and weight of my gutting knife from back home, then I take about thirty strides away from the nearest dummy. I imagine I'm about to attack Alexander, the gamemakers, the peacekeeper that shoved little Sola, Johan's stupid parents, and, yes, even my mother for a moment.

I charge, throwing my first knife, which sticks cleanly into the dummy's shoulder. The second one lands in the dummy's gut, around twenty steps away. The last knife digs itself into the dummy's neck at ten steps. All of this happens in a matter of seconds, but I'm not done yet. I pull the knife from the dummy's gut and I stab it one, two, three times, and this dummy won't be bothering anyone anymore. It's gruesome business, but it gets my point across. I am not to be trifled with.

Panting, I look up at the judges. Many of them are studying me with serious expressions, though I think one may be passed out drunk, because she is laying with her head on her shoulder, which I know will make her neck hurt. A puddle of drool is forming on her pink tunic.

"Is that all, Miss Valens?" Seneca Crane asks me from his seat. I nod, and he gestures to the door. "Then you are dismissed."

I bow slightly, just for good measure, and then walk out the back exit, as we have been instructed to do in order to avoid seeing the other waiting tributes. This is supposed to prevent secrets from being revealed if, for example, a tribute is particularly good at camouflage, and becomes covered in paint during the course of their private session. This makes me sad, because I want to apologize to Johan in advance. I have just done the exact opposite of what I've been told; I performed to the best of my abilities, and, against all odds, have done considerably well.

Though I feel a bit guilty, I am also pleased with myself for asserting my position with the gamemakers. Maybe now I can get some good sponsors. Pisces may have wanted us to do badly, but Finnick is my real advisor, and I think this is what Finnick would prefer. Sponsors won him his Games, after all.

I return to my floor, where the stylists, Finnick, Pisces, and Deloris Ingratos await me.

"So?" asks Deloris. This isn't a real question, but it's obvious what she wants to know.

I open my mouth, but I'm unsure of what to say. Yes, I did well, but this isn't what Pisces wanted. Then again, maybe this won't matter, as the gamemakers were saturated in alcohol, and they likely won't remember my performance. Finally, I just answer honestly. "I did my best."

There. This answer ought to be ambiguous enough, as no one really knows what my best looks like. Still, Pisces gives me a suspicious look, from which I avert my gaze. Why should I care what Pisces thinks, anyway? I'm sure the blush forming on my cheeks has nothing to do with shame.

We sit together, sipping red wine—a drink I've tasted only a few times in my life, despite the fact that after fish, it is what my district is best known for. The anxious mood is so obvious to everyone, that it's a relief when I spill my drink and an Avox is forced to clean up for me. As I'm being told not to apologize to an Avox, Johan enters the sitting room.

"Isla, you klutz," he chuckles when he sees the red stain on the white sofa cushion next to me. All of our eyes turn up to him meaningfully, and for a moment, the Avox forgets the stain, though he is quickly reminded when Deloris Ingratos smacks his hand toward the cushion.

"Pay attention," she growls at him. Then her face returns to Johan. "How did you do, sweetie?"

"Well, I used a slingshot, just like I said I would." His lips turn up, like he is trying to hide a grin. "I… may have accidentally injured a peacekeeper."

Pisces spits his drink, causing a cloud of red wine mist to coat the area. "What… did… you… do?" he asks through spurts of laughter.

Deloris purses her lips. "Stop laughing," she tells Pisces. "This is serious."

Johan tries to straighten his face, but he can't. "Let's just say the peacekeeper should be happy the Capitol is good at repairing damage, because he wouldn't be having any baby peacekeepers in District Four."

"You're going to die," Ingratos decides. "Oh, stop fidgeting and have the thing reupholstered," she smacks the poor Avox's hand again.

"Pisces said to do badly. I did very badly," Johan says simply. "How did you do?" Johan turns his attention to me. I freeze up, unwilling to admit that I've gone against the plan and made our partnership look unbalanced and uncoordinated.

"I guess we'll see," I say, pointing to the television screen across from the red blotched couch.

"Oh, we still have time," observes Venus, irritatingly. "Tell us what you did, Isla."

"Yes, tell us," says Pisces with mock enthusiasm.

"I just threw some knifes," I explain in frustration. "I didn't castrate any peacekeepers—"

"_Ehh_," the collective group moans in disgust.

"—but it wasn't career throwing either. Can we just get some food?" I look meaningfully at the Avox that hadn't been trying to clean my wine spill. "I want a bowl of dried cranberries," I say, desiring nothing less than to have my mouth so full that I can't talk. The Avox nods and walks away, only to return a few minutes later with my snack.

I cram handfuls of berries between my lips while Johan explains his mishap until it's time for our scores to be announced. These are the ones I remember:

District One, Alexander: ten. District One, Pia: eight. District Two, Gem: seven. District Three, Briggs: eight. District Four, Johan: two. District Four, Isla: nine.

I don't hear the rest of the scores, because Johan spits, "What the hell, Isla?" He looks so bewildered and betrayed. I feel horrible.

"I'm sorry!" I apologize, jumping into damage control. "I panicked. I don't know why I did it."

"Girly, you need to stick with a strategy one of these days," Pisces says. "Are you working on our team here, or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course I am," I snap.

"What happened to mediocrity? You said it wasn't a career throw, but I didn't I thought you meant that it was worse, not better," Johan asks.

"I wasn't better," I say. "Alexander still has me beat."

Johan starts shaking his head before I even finish talking. "Alexander isn't in the career group. He's set himself apart from everyone else because he doesn't want or need their help. And if you didn't consider yourself a target before, you definitely need to now."

"I did. I think that was one of the reasons why I did it. I was scared of him. Now I'm less afraid. The gamemakers wouldn't have rated me so highly if they didn't think I had a chance," I say.

"Was it really necessary to prove it, though?" Finnick asks. The fact that he isn't on my side makes me angry. I had thought that Finnick and I were alike. "Now you've made your ally look weak. You've made him look like baggage, and as long as you're on a team with him, it will look like you're hopelessly trying to protect him. This will get you both in trouble. As long as you're together, any career will not hesitate to attack. It's backwards, I know, but that's just psychology of the Games."

"So what? We should break up our team? Neither of us will survive alone," I ask. I look at Johan, and though he says nothing, I can see that he knows it is true. "We have to stick together," I say after a moment of silence.

Pisces sighs. "Drink," he demands of an Avox, who promptly retrieves a chilled glass and a bottle of scotch. The Avox fills the glass for Pisces, who raises it. "Nice knowing you."

My eyes are starting to sting and this make me angry. Why should I feel bad when I've done so well? Not wanting everyone to see me in my time of weakness, I stand up. "Good night, everyone," I say formally, spin around, and barely manage to slam my door shut before the tremors start to plague my body.


	9. Chapter 9

The night of the interviews is upon us, and I can't think. Venus and her prep team have done their best to disguise the dark circle beneath my eyes, but even when they're out of sight, I know they're there. I am shaking like a leaf as I look into the mirror, and my green evening gown does not help this image.

Well, maybe evening gown isn't the right word to describe this garment. It is transparent green cloth draped artfully over my naked body. My hair, which has been interwoven with strands of gold and green, falls just past my breasts so that I have at least something to hide behind. I am also wearing skimpy golden underwear beneath the green gown, which makes the outfit thoroughly conservative here.

"It could have been worse," Venus says, her head peeking out behind my left shoulder as I stare into the mirror. "The citizens wanted nudity, but I said, 'No, no, no. We ought to preserve her innocence as long as we can.' Be grateful."

I want to vomit. I want to slap someone, and I am considering attacking Venus when my name is called. A blue woman with a clipboard and a headset grabs onto my arm. "Get in line, get in line. It's almost time to enter the stage."

As she says this, I can hear the Capitol's anthem playing over the speakers and I know the show has begun.

"Welcome to the interviews of the Seventy-Third Hunger Games!" I hear Caesar Flickerman address the audience. They reply with an ecstatic cheer. "I am excited, I am very excited. Do you know why?"

"WHY?" the audience asks.

"Because of this year's group of tributes, that's why!" The audience thunders in applause. "We have a natural killer from District One, with a nearly unprecedented score of ten!" There is more cheering. "A gorgeous flower from District Four with a score almost equal to that of boy from District One!" Again, the audience's response is deafening. "And…" Caesar quiets to nearly a whisper, and I can imagine the audience members leaning in to hear his words, "a brother and sister from District Eleven, pitted against one another in a furious battle to the death." The audience sighs, almost regretfully. "I tell you, this is going to be the best Hunger Games yet!"

The thunderous applause makes it difficult to focus. I go over my responses again. I imagine stretching my face into that winning smile Finnick had taught me all about. I think it will look more like a grimace. I hold my place in line, though, as well all move into the auditorium and take our seats. The girl from District One goes up and the show begins. I want to run.

Alexander goes up. I almost scream every time he looks at me.

District Two finishes. My hands are clammy.

District Three. I am shaking.

And then…

"DISTRICT FOUR, ISLA VALENS!" Caesar introduces me to the world. I stand up, smile, wave, and walk onto center stage where a chair waits for me. It's the same chair that all tributes sit it. How many children have sat in this very seat? And how many of them are now dead?

"Welcome, Miss Valens, welcome." He reaches for my hand and kisses it. It is now that I realize his lips have been painted blood red. Every instinct tells me to jerk my hand out of his grasp before he bites into me and drains me of every bit of life left, but I hold still and continue to smile widely.

"Thank you, Caesar," I say. He smiles back at me. The contrast of his brilliantly white teeth against his scarlet lips is enough to make my head spin.

"Of course, dear." He pauses briefly as we sink into our seats, but starts back up again as soon as my legs hit the chair. "I must say you look absolutely ravishing for a water plant."

There it is again. You look nice, _for what you are_. I will never be considered human. I will never be considered their equal, even if I win the games and let the Capitol take control of my body as I know they've done for Finnick. And still I must look pleased. It is disgusting.

"Now dear, you must tell us what it was like for you to have your name called? What is your favorite part of the Capitol thus far? Did you expect to receive such a wonderful score? What is your strategy for the games?" Caesar issues a barrage of questions and I'm struggling to keep up.

I chuckle. "Slow down, Flickerman," I say charmingly. "One question at a time."

He laughs as well. "As you wish. How about the question we're all dying to hear the answer to, then? Do you intend to join forces with Alexander Mortemlator? Will you form a career pack?"

Without my consent, my eyes shift to the second seat among the tributes, where I find the boy from District One, staring intently at me. He doesn't blink. I freeze, and my guard drops for just a moment, and though I collect myself quickly, I know the entire Capitol has seen the fear that took me.

"As wonderful as that would be, I have another ally." I say this knowing that Johan may hate me for betraying him and getting a high score. I want to take it back, but I can't. What's done is done, and the truth is, my selfish desire for a friend is greater than my guilt.

"Oh? Do tell," Caesar leads me on.

I configure my face into something that I imagine looks evasive. "You'll just have to wait and see."

Caesar sighs dejectedly. "Oh, you are very coy, Miss Valens. But tell us, aren't you frightened? This boy from District One is quite talented. More talented than even you, I daresay."

I grin. I have been prepared for this question since Pisces had the idea of making my opponents look weak in front of the sponsors. "Oh, what do I have to worry about? The girl from District One is just a career wannabe whose skills just don't quite match up to some of the other players. Then there's her counterpart, Alexander Mortemlator. Maybe he didn't let on during his interview, but I have had a few opportunities to talk with him, and he is absolutely crazy. He is arrogant, and sees his own abilities as far better than they truly are. Mark my words; this will be the death of him. I am so sure of this, in fact, that when he offered to form a team with me, I declined." The audience gasps, but I keep talking through it.

"Then there are a few other people with semi-impressive scores, but nothing too big. Oh, and let's not forget the depressed duo of District Eleven. They're constantly weeping. I doubt they could see me attack them through their puffy eyelids if I stood directly in front of them. And finally, there are the poverty stricken weaklings from District Twelve, who pose about as much of a threat to me as butterflies. So no, I am not afraid of my fellow tributes."

Caesar Flickerman nods. We continue talking for a couple more minutes, but he knows I've said everything I want to say, and in no time I am sent off the stage, despite the protest of the audience.

"I know, I know," Flickerman says with sadness. "I wish we could keep her as well. Alas, we have more tributes to interview!"

The audience perks up at this, though the applause that comes when Johan is called onto stage is nothing compared to mine. Sure, Johan is tall and has those trademark handsome features of any typical boy from District Four, but the Capitol doesn't consider him to be anything special, particularly with his poor score in his private session.

Johan talks for a while. I start to wonder if he'll say anything about an alliance. We haven't spoken much since my betrayal and I'm hoping he still wants to work with me in the games. Neither of us have a chance at survival without the other.

"So, Johan… you're a strapping young man. Surely, your low score was a strategy. You have a plan, yes?"

Johan smirks. "If my low score is a strategy, I don't think it would be very strategic to go explaining it in front of the other tributes. I will say this: I have a plan. And I have friends, both in and out of the arena. I volunteered, remember."

Caesar's mouth opens wide, "Ah, this is true! It nearly slipped my mind. How about you?" There's a collective noise of agreement from the audience which I find almost comical. "That is a mistake we will be sure not to make again."

Caesar segues smoothly into a farewell that sounds almost hopeful, before sending Johan off the stage, but I'm not paying attention to him any longer. I am too exhilarated. I have survived this interview. Johan has also survived, and managed to catch the attention of the sponsors while refraining from posing as too much of a threat to the other tributes. As far as happiness in the face of death goes, I am feeling wonderful.

Johan takes his seat next to me. I glance at him and he nods ever so slightly. I can't stop my lips from splitting into a full grin. Undoubtedly, the cameras have caught this and sponsors are already attempting to interpret it, but right now I don't care. All that matters is that my ally is still with me. Johan is saving my life, and I, selfishly, am letting him.


	10. Chapter 10

I awake early, the morning of the Games. I don't bother to look at the clock next to my bed. I just keep my eyes shut; trying to block out the world that I know must eventually invade my reality.

_Reality._

I imagine for just a moment that when I open my eyes, I'll discover that everything has just been a terrible nightmare. I might even give my mom a hug. I would certainly never complain about Johan. Made brave by the idea, I raise my eyelids. No such luck.

There's a short rap on my door, and Doloris' shrill voice beckons me to awaken and eat.

"God knows when you'll get another chance," she reminds me. I know this is true, but I hate that Doloris is the one to say it. I want her to go away. I don't move.

Next, I hear the strange misty tones of Venus. She seems to have gotten the key to my room, because the door opens even though I locked it before bed last night.

"I have your outfit," she says. "You'll want to try to get clues from it. It's your first glimpse into what your arena might look like."

This sits me up. Nuggets of wisdom are spilling out of the mouth of my stylist, I realize, and I wonder why I've been so stupid as to ignore Venus, who has been close to the Games for so long.

"Help me," I say simply. This is all I can croak out. My voice is so hoarse, and I hope Venus thinks it's because I've just woken up. The truth is that I have cried myself to sleep every night since my individual training session.

Venus nods down at the outfit in one hand, and the pair of shoes in the other. I grab a pair of pants first. Well, they aren't really _pants_. They cut off just below the knee, and the material is black and stretchy. The shirt is short sleeved, made of the same material. Then there's the jacket, which is light, and breathable, camouflaged in the colors of the woods. Venus is right; this tells be a great deal about my arena. It won't be cold, but it also won't be very hot. It will be wooded.

Good. At least the temperature will be comfortable, and I learned a lot about finding foods in wooded lands from training.

I throw the outfit on quickly, and I find myself hoping that the black material of the pants and shirt will be good for swimming. Water is where I will excel, assuming there will be some. Next, I study the shoes. They don't give much ankle support, but I can tell they're built for speed. We're expected to be doing a lot of running during these Games.

When I'm all dressed up, Venus surprises me by giving me a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck, Isla," she says, and then she leaves me. On my way down to breakfast I wipe my face with my jacket sleeve. There's no way I'm going into the arena with neon pink lipstick on my cheek.

Johan is already at breakfast, picking through his food but not eating any of it.

"Eat," Pisces tells him. "If you want to live, eat."

I sit next to him and say nothing for a while, but the silence is killing me. "Are you ready?" I finally ask. It's a stupid question and we both know the answer.

He lets out a short breath of air, almost like a laugh. "Are you?"

I feel my cheeks lifting in a small smile. "Of course," I answer sarcastically. "Let's do some killin'."

Johan grimaces. "I really think it's more likely that I'll be doing some dying."

"I'm glad to hear we're all staying positive," Finnick says, walking to us from the table of food. He's carrying two plates stacked high with eggs and toast, and I'm wondering how he maintains his famous form with all that food when he hands me a plate.

"Eat," Finnick says, just as Pisces had told Johan, shoving a plate in front of me. I realize that Pisces must have trained Finnick, or perhaps they had both been trained by someone else. Either way, there is a common knowledge between the two of them, and it has kept them both alive thus far.

Suddenly, I'm famished. I take the plate and start shoveling eggs down my throat like I haven't eaten in days, which will be the case soon enough. I turn back to Johan, but keep eating.

"Why do you have such little faith in yourself? You're smart, Johan. Probably, you're smarter than anyone else in the Games. That's even more important than skill."

"Oh, yeah, I'll just kill everyone with my brain waves." Johan presses his two pointer fingers against his temples and makes a face of deep concentration at me. "It's not working, Isla. You're still alive."

"Stop," I say seriously, pushing his hands down from his head. For some reason, the fact the Johan has lost his courage the morning of the Games is really bothering me. "I mean it. You could win if you really wanted to."

"Do you think I don't want to live, Isla?"

"Okay, I phrased that wrong, but you know what I mean."

"No, I don't know what you mean. Stop assuming I know things."

"But you do know things; that's what I'm trying to tell you. You've lost faith in your own abilities."

"I have no abilities. You saw my score in individual training."

"You're smart! That is your ability."

"I am able to be smart? Isla, that makes no sense. And at any rate, there are two different sorts of 'smart.' I read books, so I'm knowledgeable. You're smart enough to know how to live. That's the sort of brains that a person needs in the Games."

"Are you two sure you're allies?" Pisces interjects.

"Yes," Johan and I answer at the same time. We both laugh, and this feels good, but we can both sense that it is temporary, which makes the following silence thick. I start looking to excuses to laugh again, because the silence is so stuffy that it feels like it's suffocating me. But it's never genuine and it makes me sound crazy.

Not much later, Johan and I are separated. We board hovercrafts, which take us on a ride that feels like an eternity, but there are no windows, so I can't tell where we are. A tracker is injected into my arm, which might sting any other day, but I'm struggling to feel anything today.

Finally, I'm taken to my last stop before the Games begin—a waiting room beneath the arena. Venus is there waiting for me. She tries to fix my hair, but I shove her off. I can't handle her fidgeting around my head like a fly—not causing any harm, but certainly irritating.

"I look fine, Venus, leave me be," I inform her. She just drifts away and sits on a couch without saying a word. I almost want to apologize and beg for more advise like she gave me earlier, but I can't bring myself to do it. If I open my mouth, I'm afraid I'll throw up.

"It's almost time, dear," she says. My hands are trembling uncontrollably. I look her in the eyes and I feel myself falling apart.

I shake my head at her, like I'm denying the truth of what's about to happen. I'm sure my face is bright red, because I'm not breathing. Venus grasps my shoulders.

"Shhh," she croons, "shh. You're okay. You're okay." I force myself to inhale. I realize that I'm moaning with every breath, and I tell myself to shut up. Now is absolutely the worst time for this sort of behavior. "Are you going to pull yourself together for Johan?"

I nod repeatedly. Venus moves her hands from my shoulders to my face. "Look at me," she says. I can't.

"Look," she says again. I do it this time. "You are going into those Games whether you like it or not. Are you going to do your ally and yourself a favor and get ready? Or are you going to lose control?"

"I…" I start. My voice isn't working right. I clear my throat and try again. "I'm going to get ready."

"That's right," Venus confirms. "What will you do when the countdown ends and the cannon fires?"

I almost lose it again when I realize that Johan and I never set a plan for this. We could die within the first hour. Almost. "I'm going to find Johan. We are going to work together to get what we need, and then we're going to run as fast and as far as we can."

"Good," Venus agrees. A buzzing sound fills the room, and I'm unsure what this means, but Venus knows. "Get on your platform," she says.

I take a deep breath and walk over to the circular metal plate on the floor. I look back at Venus while I'm standing there. I want to thank her for what she's done, but a glass cylinder surrounds me and my voice is cut off. She places her hand on the glass and I follow suit, so that the only thing that separates us is the glass itself. I've never liked Venus, but she is my anchor right now. The thing that is holding me to sanity, and I am grateful for this.

My plate begins to rise and for a moment, I can see Venus' face below me, and the Arena above me. I feel like I'm being torn away from my home and all that is familiar to me. By the time Venus is completely out of sight, a single tear is running down my cheek, but I wipe it away swiftly. I vow that this is the last tear I will shed as long as I am in the Games.

Finally, I take in my surroundings and take in a sharp gasp.

For the first time in the history of the Hunger Games, the cornucopia has been placed behind the tributes, with each of us facing different parts of the arena. This set up makes one thing perfectly clear: we need not fear each other. Our greatest challenge is the arena, and the Capitol's creations lurking inside its darkest crevices.


	11. Chapter 11

I force myself to stand still while the countdown begins, but having my back turned to my opponents is driving me crazy. I swing my head side to side. Directly in front of me are the woods, and on either side of me, I see the brother from the District Eleven pair, and Alexander.

Alexander winks at me and I shudder so violently that I nearly step off my platform.

_BANG!_

Some idiot has moved, causing an explosion that makes the ground tremble. I feel the heat of the blast on the back of my neck, and I silently pray that Johan was nowhere near the flames. Just because the bombs are designed only to kill the rule violator doesn't mean others can't receive burns.

I'm about to call Johan's name and find out for myself when the boy from Eleven beats me to the punch, calling for his sister.

"Bailey!" he shouts. "Bailey!"

The cannon fires, and I immediately start to create a distance between myself and Alexander, simultaneously keeping a lookout for Johan.

I see the blasted plate with the number eleven beneath it and come to a sudden realization at the same time as the brother from District Eleven.

"Bailey!" he cries again, this time in despair.

"She jumped," says a voice behind me. I spin around and feel my skin tingle at the sight of Alexander, who must have snuck up behind me while I was distracted. I back away from him, allowing myself to glance back and forth to ensure that no one else tries any funny business.

"Why would she do that?" I stall for time, hoping Johan can stab Alexander in the back while he's facing me.

"Isn't it obvious?" he asks.

"Yes. She's freeing her brother. He had come into the Games intending to die for her. Now he can play for himself."

I am still backing away from Alexander, considering sprinting for dear life, when the boy from eleven saves me the trouble. He spins away from the burned wreckage and snarls at Alexander. He looks positively animalistic, and Alexander chuckles, like he has been presented with a pleasant challenge.

"You asked for it," he tells the boy, bending over and picking up the nearest weapon, a club. "Another day, Isla?"

"Preferably not," I say as he approaches his prey. I turn completely and spot my ally. "Johan!"

Johan's eyes shoot to over to me as I sprint to him. I nearly die twice on my way to him. First, a knife whizzes past my head. Next, the boy from nine tries tackles me, but he's shot down by an arrow before he reaches his mark. I don't know if he dies, but I don't stay to check.

"Good to see you alive," he says when I finally make it. He is weighed down with a couple packs and two bottles of water. "Here, take some of this." He hands me one of the bottles and one of the bags. I put the bottle in the bag and swing it over my shoulders.

"Let's go," I say, bracing myself for a long run.

"Wait." He grabs my shoulder, looking suspiciously at the woods.

"I know," I tell him. "With this setup, the gamemakers are definitely planning something, but we don't really have much of a choice. Either we can go into there, or we can stay here."

As if to illustrate my point, I look over at the cornucopia in time to see a boy slit a girl's throat. I feel bile forcing its way up my throat as blood coats the face of her attacker.

"You're right," Johan says, pulling me towards the woods. I almost trip, because my feet aren't moving. "Isla, did you hear me? Let's go."

I can't help it. I lose my breakfast on one of Johan's shoes. Johan rolls his eyes. "I thought you were the tough one," he says. He slips his left arm beneath my pack and both of my shoulders so that he's supporting my back, and begins to guide me forward. It takes me a second, but I start to move on my own, and that's when he knows that we can start running.

He could beat me in a flat out sprint, but I can tell that all of those years of swimming have paid off, because I could go for another mile when Johan needs a break. Johan, being from one of the rich families, didn't need to work for a living, or cool off in the water on hot days when he lived in an air conditioned home. I have the muscles that come from a life of necessity, while he does not.

"Stop," he gasps, "…just for a while. We can keep walking. Just stop running."

I glance around nervously, but no one is coming. At least for now.

"No, let's take a real break," I tell him. "We have enough water to hold us for a little while, if it's rationed. Let's look in our bags."

"Oh, thank God," he wheezes, collapsing on the ground and clutching his side.

"Johan, tell me when you need a break, okay?" I plop down next to him and roll out my shoulders, trying to relax. "Think about it—if you're running too hard, you're going to need more rest, more, food, and more water. These are all things we don't have a lot of."

"As far as you know," he says, opening his pack and dumping the contents out on the ground. They're pretty basic. A knife, a wire for snares, a sleeping bag, an extra bottle—empty, sadly—and some tablets to purify any water we might find.

"Okay, that's acceptable," he says. "What's in yours?"

I follow his example and flip my bag upside down. There are some dried fruits as well as a few dried strips of beef, in addition to a second knife, a first-aid kit, and a sealed white package.

"What do you think this is?" I ask, holding up the package.

"You could open it and find out," he says.

"It's sealed, though. What if it's food? I don't need food right now. I'd rather save it."

"Then save it. But I disagree. I think you do need food, given that you lost it all on my foot." He lifts his muddy foot up for me to get a better view. All of my vomit has come off of the shoe during the run, but thinking of that girl's blood shooting from her neck nearly causes me to cover it in a fresh coat.

Apparently Johan notices a change in my face, because he scoots over to me and puts his stinky, sweaty arm around me. It's gross enough that I sort of get an urge to slip out from under it, but I don't want to hurt his feelings, because we're supposed to be friends.

"That's why you didn't tell me to slow down earlier when we were running, isn't it?" I ask.

"What do you mean?"

"I was weak out there," I say. "You were proving that we're still worth backing. Isn't that right?"

"Well…"

"Isn't it?" I ask more persistently this time. I slide out from under his arm and face him directly.

"Look, Isla, you've already proven your strength in training. You don't need to send any messages to the sponsors. I have something to prove, though, remember?"

I think back to my betrayal during private training. We had agreed to look mediocre together, but I panicked and did well for myself, leaving Johan to look like an inept toddler, following me around because he can't take care of himself.

"I'm sorry, if that's any consolation. I didn't mean to…to—"

"You didn't mean to do well? You're just so good, you do well without even trying. That's Isla for you. Always perfect."

"That's not what I mean."

"Yes, it is."

"No, stop putting words in my mouth." I'm agitated now. I'm done feeling guilty about my actions. It's time to get over it. I wish I could explain to him how scared I had been on that day. I want him to see why I needed to throw those knives the way I did. I can't, though. I am not allowed to admit fear while in the arena. "If I could go back and stick to the plan, I would. It's too late now, though," I finally say.

He seems to understand all of the things that I am unable to put into words. He is smart and can read in between the lines. "I felt the same way you did during individual sessions."

Heat flares up inside my chest. "Congratulations on holding yourself back," I applaud him. How did he manage to turn this around and make it sound like he did better than me?

He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but just then, the cannon fires. We both count the shots.

"Seven," we say at the same time. We start to list off the people we know have died.

"The girl from Eleven," Johan says.

"Probably her brother, as well," I add.

"The boy from Nine."

"Did he definitely die?"

"Unless he's immortal? Yes."

I nod. "Then the girl from…Actually, I'm not sure who she was," I refer to the girl whose throat was slit.

"I don't know either," Johan says. "I suppose we'll find out tonight. The boy from Twelve also died in the blood bath."

I count for a moment. "That makes five. Hopefully the boy from Eleven took a big chunk of Alexander before he died, too."

"Hey, maybe Alexander is one of the seven."

"And maybe pigs can fly and this is all a dream."

"And maybe you're made of chocolate," Johan laughs.

"And maybe—" I am cut off by a crashing sound.

"Another little run, do you think?" I ask.

"Absolutely," he agrees. We make a good team, helping each other pack up our bags. We're running just before whoever—or whatever—had made that sound breaks through the foliage.

"Johan," I say as we're running.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"It's nice to know you." This is all I can say.


	12. Chapter 12

We stop running that night, exhausted but okay. Hunger sets in a few hours after Johan has gone to sleep. We had settled down in a high place covered by trees—a place where we can see all around, but can't easily be seen—and I am on first watch.

I had expected to be hungry. They are called the Hunger Games for a reason, after all. But when I hear the crunching of footsteps somewhere far away, I realize for the first time that I have never really considered what it will feel like to take someone's life. If I don't have it in me to kill, it doesn't matter how accurately I can throw a knife, I will lose.

I don't want to wake Johan—the footsteps aren't moving any closer. Besides, I'm afraid that he might mistake me for someone else and shout. That would be the opposite of what I want. So, I just sit there and consider who this might be.

The anthem had played a few hours earlier, and I now know everyone that has died since the moment Bailey's plate exploded: the girls from Five and Six, the boys from Seven and Nine, Bailey from eleven, of course, and both from Twelve.

I realize with a shock that the boy from Eleven, Bailey's brother, is still alive. Suddenly, I feel a little insufficient as a human. It must take a great deal of strength to survive a fight with Alexander, and an even greater amount of strength to sacrifice oneself for someone else. This boy's family must be made from noble stuff.

Johan rustles in his sleep. It isn't loud, but I still freeze, listening for an indication that someone is lurking in the darkness surrounding us. The only sounds I am greeted by are my grumbling stomach and Johan's soft, unfortunate snores.

I'm starting to feel restless and I'm wondering if Johan would be willing to move again when I hear it-

_CRACK!_

I hold my breath. This noise was very, very close. This time I decide to risk waking Johan. It's no good to put my hand over his mouth—he'll just try to fight me off, and that would be too loud. Instead, I nudge his shoulder gently. This has the desired effect. He inhales sharply, but does not cry out.

I press a finger against my lips and point in the direction of the sound. He sits up as quietly as he can, but I still find myself grimacing at the whispering leaves shifting into new positions beneath his body. Together, we press our faces deep into the shrubs, trying to get a better view of whom or what is on the other side.

We are greeted by the sight of a woman, or, at least the Capitol's idea of a woman. She is tall, and though it is dark, I can tell that her face is horrifying. Her nose is more of a snout and her mouth hangs wide open to reveal razor sharp teeth. The most frightening thing about her, however, is her hair, which appears to be writhing with small vipers.

I jump away. It's involuntary, and it's loud. Johan gives me a look like my father used to give me when I did something naughty.

"We should probably run now," he says, no longer whispering, which is how I know the snake-haired woman must have heard me.

We jump up and push our way through the bushes, which seemed so convenient before, but now act as a hindrance. It becomes clear quickly that we are outmatched. She runs with inhuman speed, which makes sense, given that she is clearly not human.

"Should we climb?" I ask.

"Did you see her hands? She can probably climb better than the both of us."

I risk a glance back. Her hands glimmer with the reflection of the moon through the trees, and I realize with a start that they look like bronze.

"What is she?" I shout to him.

"I have an idea, but let's just think about how to get rid of her for now!" he replies.

"I am thinking! That's why I want to know what she is!"

"Just try throwing your knife at her!"

"And what if I miss? I'll be down… a knife!" I'm starting to get winded now, and I know it's only a matter of time before we're overtaken.

"We don't have… a choice!" he says through deep breaths. "If you don't throw…we die! If you miss…we die! If you hit…"

"Right!" I slow down and turn for just enough time to throw my knife. It sinks into her gut, but even with this injury she barely slows down. "Gimme yours!"

Johan hands me his knife, but since we're running, he's unsteady, and I take a deep cut into my palm, but I don't cry out. The pain helps me focus. This time, when I aim, I take my time, and send it into one of her eyes. As she falls to the ground, her momentum causes her to skid forward and hit her head on a tree, leaving a bloody mark. She comes to a stop against it with a _thump! _And it's over.

Breathless, Johan and I gasp for a moment, before we cautiously approach her limp form.

"Sorry…about that…by the way," Johan pants. It takes me a second to realize what he's referring to, until I look down and find that my hand is bleeding profusely. I suddenly feel light headed, but I tell myself not to do anything stupid, like throw up again, or faint.

Johan kneels next to the woman, pulls the knife out of her gut, wipes it on the ground, and cuts a strip of cloth from her shirt. "Here," he says, gesturing for me to kneel next to him so that he can wrap my wound. I'm afraid of sitting too close to the body in case she isn't dead, but my trust for Johan wins out, and I let him have his way.

"Now tell me what she is," I demand as I feel the cloth tightening around my hand. I wince, but I try not to move, knowing that if I struggle, it will only make it hurt more.

Johan glances at her hair of snakes, which is still twitching like it's fighting death.

"When I was young, before my grandmother died, she gave me an old chest. Something that had been passed down for generations in my family," he began.

"What does this have to do with _her_?" I ask gesturing in the body's direction.

"I'm getting there," he says, putting my freshly bandaged hand down. I know it's only a matter of time before it becomes infected, so I grab a few more fresh scraps of cloth from the body, thinking I'll stuff them into my bag, when I remember that we left our stuff back in the bushes.

"Actually, let's talk and walk. We should get our packs." I gingerly role the body over, and carefully, _carefully_, I remove the knife from her eye, which is uncomfortably close to the twisting serpents. "Okay," I say when my work is done. "Back to your story."

We start moving in the direction of our camp. Our trail is easy to follow, since we were pretty careless about where we stepped during the chase.

"My grandmother told me to hide the chest somewhere secret. She said that if anyone ever found it, I could be killed," Johan went on.

"Why would your grandmother give you something so dangerous?"

"She said that she was too old to use it. She had already gone blind. You see, the chest was full of books."

"But what's wrong with books? And why didn't she give them to your older siblings? You were just a child. She couldn't trust you to keep it a secret."

"Oh, I was a very secretive child. My siblings on the other hand? They're not the same. Anyway, I was always a writer when I was young. She knew I would appreciate a good story," Johan explained.

"A story?" I ask. Now I see the danger of these books. Fiction is illegal in Panem. The only books we ever use are for school.

"Well, not only that. They were full of history." I'm about to open my mouth again, to say that we have history classes, when he continues. "Not Panem's history. Ages and eras that existed long before our great, great, great grandparents were conceived. There were also myths."

"Myths?" I ask. This word feels foreign on my tongue.

"Stories from long ago, about heroes and monsters and gods. People used to believe in them, like they were true."

I want to scoff, but the society that I live in is so outrageous, any judgment I pass on other cultures will just make me feel like a hypocrite. I keep my mouth shut instead, and just listen on.

"I mean, there was only one book on the myths in that box, so I can't call myself an expert, but that…" Johan looks back in the direction of the dead body, which is now quite a distance away from us. He shudders. "Well, she's a myth alright. A monster."

I laugh. "So, what are you saying? These creatures are real?"

"No, of course not. I'm saying that the Capitol designed this particular terror with an old recipe."

I nod. This makes sense. I had once heard that the name _Panem_ comes from an ancient language. I hadn't believed it at the time, but perhaps the Capitol draws its influence from the past more than I have given them credit for. "Okay. Tell me about her."

"I think…well…there is a myth about three sisters called Gorgons. It's sort of a long story about how they came to be, but they were said to be so terrifying that they could turn the strongest warrior to stone with a single glance."

I smile, "But, Johan—"

"I know, I know. We clearly aren't stone. But maybe the whole stone thing was a metaphor, like being frozen with fear or something."

I look at him skeptically, but I don't argue, because I have no alternative explanation for the creature we just saw.

"I couldn't tell you which one this was supposed to be, but Gorgons were known for their hair made of snakes and horrible faces."

"That certainly fits." As we talk, we reach our old camp, which no longer seems like a good place to hide.

"What do you want to do?" Johan asks. "We could try to get back to the cornucopia."

"We need to find a water source. What we have won't last long."

"I could see a small pond from where I was standing at the cornucopia," Johan persists.

"It will be dangerous there. The careers will have formed their pack by now. I think we should walk as far away from them as we can," I argue.

"Into what, Isla? I don't know about you, but I would feel much safer going up against humans—things I can outrun. I don't want a repeat of what just happened. We got lucky, but the Capitol has obviously has some pretty nasty things up their sleeves this time."

"What makes you think we didn't just see the worst of it?" I ask, though I know this is silly. Of course there are worse things planned. "Besides, there are just as likely to be dangers from the Capitol at the cornucopia or in that pond you saw."

"But at least at the cornucopia or the pond, there is a guarantee that if we live, we'll get something out of it, like weapons or water. Can the same be said about wandering is the woods all day?"

"Fine. You want to go back? You lead the damn way."

"Fine."

We stare at each other for a moment. I entertain the idea of pulling my knife out briefly, but this repulses me more than I thought it would. Johan and I may hate each other sometimes, but he's still my friend and ally.

"Fine," I say, more resigned this time. "The pond it is."

Johan looks at me funny, and I'm about to tell him to stop when a sharp cry of pain echoes all around us followed shortly by cannon fire.

I grimace. "Maybe the career pack just killed someone," I whisper hopefully.

"Small comforts," Johan whispers back to me as we start moving as quickly and quietly as we can. "There's one more thing you should know about the Gorgans."

"What?"

"Out of the three of them, only one was mortal."

"What does that mean for us?" I ask, though I already know where he's headed.

"I expect that means that the one we killed might be slightly less than permanently dead."

I sigh. "Great. I was just wanting one more thing out for my blood."


	13. Chapter 13

"I'm sick of jogging," I state in between breaths. We've been pushing like this all day, and I know it's silly, because running is a way of life, and sitting is most certainly not in the Games, but I'm actually starting to get bored. This can't be good, because it means the Gamemakers will be planning a new horror for us. "I can't wait for the pond. I'd like to have a good swim."

"See," Johan replies. "The pond is a good idea."

"Maybe," I smile. I glance at the sky. I can't tell because of the trees, but if I had to guess, I would say it's roughly noon. "Do you want to eat something, or wait until we hit the cornucopia for that?"

Johan slows down—something I have noticed he does when he's thinking hard about something. "How far would you say we are?"

"I can't be sure," I say. "It took us all of yesterday to move out to where we were before. Then again, we weren't really following much of a path. Maybe two more hours?"

Johan nods. "Let's take a little break. We'll just drink some water. No food."

I agree with this. We've been very calculating when it comes to food, since neither of us are very good hunters. "Okay," I say. I need to clean up my hand again, anyway, since it has been bleeding through its wrappings.

We sit down. I wipe off my forehead with the back of my left hand, the uninjured one, and then take a couple of swigs from my water before I finally brace myself for what's under my bandage.

There's a lot of blood. That one was a given. I run water over all of that, and what is left is an ugly but sufficiently clean slash, splitting much of the skin between my thumb and pointer finger. This is unfortunate, as I am terrible at throwing with my left hand. Still, things could be worse. There isn't an infection at least. As I'm digging through my pack for some fresh cloth, I run across the mystery white package, and I am again tempted to open it. It could be medical supplies.

Johan sees me eyeing it.

"Open it," he tells me.

"No," I reply. "This is the Games. There are going to be worse cuts than this to come."

"Maybe, maybe not. But I can guarantee that if that hand doesn't heal up, you won't be able to defend yourself, and I certainly can't defend the both of us. So…open it."

I think for a moment, but, as usual, I have to agree with Johan's logic. I struggle over the package for a moment, but moving my hand like that really makes it sting. My eyes are starting to get misty, and I don't want to look weak, so I toss it over to Johan.

"I can't," I say simply. He nods. His fingers slip on my blood once or twice, but he manages to open it.

"What is it?" I ask.

He looks at me grimly. "Crackers," he replies. "Just crackers."

I exhale—for I now realize that I had been holding my breath—and smile. "That's okay. It would be a shame to waste the nice clean mutt shirt," I say, wrapping my hand in a fresh strip of cloth. "Besides, there will probably be meds at the cornucopia."

Johan scoots over to me and helps me tie the bandage tight. It irritates me that he keeps helping me, but I think he feels guilty, since he was the one who wounded me in the first place.

"Hey," I say when he finishes. "Hand me one of those crackers."

He chuckles and passes me the white package, now coated with congealed blood in some places. My stomach grumbles when I look inside, but I only take one out—it's roughly the size of my palm, and dry to the taste. It's the sort of thing that would be good to eat if you're sick. I decide we should try to save these, so I tuck them into my pack and stand up.

"Break's over. I don't want to get attacked," I say. I offer my good hand to Johan and help him to his feet. "If we hurry, we could have food by sundown—"

"Shh," Johan says, putting his hand over my mouth, which makes me angry, though I remain soundless out of fear. I make sure he sees the irritation on my face, though. In response, he directs my gaze to a squirrel a small distance away. Johan gestures to my knife and pretends to throw it. I nod, take out the knife, inhale deeply, and let it fly.

My shot is short, and the squirrel scurries off.

Johan shrugs. "It was worth a try."

"I won't be very accurate with a bandaged hand, though. You need to practice throwing if we want to live," I reply.

"No," Johan says, stepping toward the place where the knife had landed, "what we need to do is find a nice place near the pond to settle and set some traps for game. While we're there, I'll pick through the weapons and find something that works. Maybe I'll find a slingshot. I bet there will be medicine for your hand, too."

I feel almost cheerful, because I realize he's right. What a team the two of us are. We stand up, shake our legs, and walk for about an hour and a half. We're to the edge of the woods when the girl from District Seven drops from a branch above us and lands right in our path. I want reach for my knife, but she already has a hatchet aimed at my face, so I decide not to risk it.

"Look, I don't want to kill you, alright?" She says.

"Really? It looks a lot like you do," Johan replies. She glances down at her hatchet for a split second, then back to us, contemplating her next move. After a moment, she slowly lets it drop to her side. I wonder if I could grab my knife now and kill her. I suspect I could not.

She rolls her brown eyes at Johan. "Really. I don't. I can't survive on my own. I've already been attacked by two mutts, and there's something…off about this arena. I don't know what it is, but that whole set up at the beginning with us facing away from the cornucopia definitely meant something."

Johan and I glance at each other meaningfully.

"You've know something don't you?" she questions.

I'm not sure how much I should tell her, and from the looks of it, Johan is in the same boat.

"Okay, whatever. You don't have to tell me yet. We can walk to the pond together. Maybe we can do some fishing there."

I visibly perk up at the word "fishing," and the girl seems to notice. "Right. You're District Four. Fishing is sort of your thing."

"And you're District Seven, so dropping from trees must be your thing," Johan observes.

"Exactly. But you don't have to call me District Seven. I have a name. That is, if you want to be allies. Otherwise, we can just duke it out right here and see who lives," she proposes nonchalantly, stroking the edge of the hatchet with her left pointer finger. She's clearly confident. As an ally, that could be a good thing. As an enemy, not so much. Then again, perhaps it's a façade. In that case, she's intelligent, and a good liar. That could go both ways.

Finally, Johan looks at me, and I nod my consent.

"Great," the girl says. "My name is Andromeda. My friends call me Andy."

"Andromeda," Johan says. "I'm Johan, this is Isla."

"Oh, please. I know who you two are. I've been watching you for a while now."

This makes me uncomfortable. "Like, before the Game started? Surely not since we've been here."

Andromeda smirks. "Right," she replies. I'm less than convinced. "Shall we?" she asks, gesturing toward the pond.

As we finish the short walk to the water, Andromeda talks loudly, and I'm beginning to regret the decision to let her join us. She's going to attract all kinds of trouble. Mercifully, by the time my toes are in the water, we haven't been attacked. This is a surprise, since the careers usually stay right near the cornucopia. Perhaps they're out hunting. Or dead.

This reminds me of the canon fire we heard earlier, and I decide to ask Andromeda about it.

"Oh, yeah, I was there for that," she answers. "The boy from five and I had originally teamed up. A mutt attacked, he died, and I lived."

Something like anger, or mania, flashes in Andromeda's eyes, and I have a distinct feeling that I ought not to ask anything more on the subject. Unfortunately, the Games cause people to do stupid things, and I'm curious to know what the mutts looked like.

"Can you describe what attacked you?"

Andromeda's eyes shoot up to me. She looks murderous, but she quickly regains her composure. "All the stupid ugly mutts look the same to me. Why?"

"How could they possibly all look the same to you?" I inquire, shocked by her answer.

"What does it matter, Isla?" Johan interjects. "She clearly doesn't want to talk about it."

"Hey," I say to Johan, "don't you gang up on me. You're the one with the theory about the Capitol drawing its inspiration for mutts from those _myths_ of yours."

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Andromeda looks suspiciously from Johan to me and back again. "What theory?"

"Aha! So, you weren't watching us. If you had been, you would have known all about this," I say, proud of my detective work.

"I already told you, I was watching you before the Game started. And, anyway, I was with the boy from District Five." Andromeda is clearly irritated with me, because she turns her attention completely on Johan. "So, this theory about the mutts. I'm guessing it's related to the way the Game started, with us facing away from one another."

"Actually, I hadn't really thought about that, but it makes sense." Johan describes the Gorgon theory as briefly as possible, and Andromeda seems to take it in better than I had. "So, if the gamemakers are putting that much effort into the beasts, then this year, we should expect more danger coming from the arena itself than from the other competitors. That is, only if we're right about the mutts."

"Which is why you need to describe what attacked you," I say. Andromeda still seems reluctant to go on, especially with me around, but she sighs and opens up.

"The first time I was attacked I was alone. I planned to rendezvous with Fabian later, after the bloodbath. A bird with a bronze beak and red eyes dove at me. It pecked at me and I raised my arms to protect my face," Andromeda pulls back her sleeves to reveal a couple of bloody gashes. "I thought I was a goner, but then the canons fired. They seemed to scare it away. When it turned around, I hit it with my hatchet. Not a bad meal, actually."

I take note of the fact that Andromeda managed to hit a flying target. With my sad attempt at squirrel hunting earlier, it would be nice to have a hunter around.

"The second time I was attacked, Fabian and I were together. This thing just came out of nowhere. Fabian didn't have a chance. Nor did I, really. The only reason I survived was because I didn't fight the thing. I just let it eat my ally, while I ran."

Andromeda's eyes brim with tears, but she blinks them back. It's hard to look strong while relating such terrors. I feel guilty for making her explain this, but I know it's for the best.

"The creature…it was sort of…reptilian," she continues. "It had a lot of heads, too. Like eight or nine of them. I don't know exactly how many."

Throughout the whole story, Johan just sits silently and listens, occasionally nodding.

"So what do you think?" Andromeda finally asks him.

"I think what you faced was a Stymphalian bird and a hydra," he replied.

"You know these creatures, then?" I question.

"Yes."

"Well, what does that mean for us?" asks Andromeda. "Sure, you can name them, but that won't help us survive."

"Well," Johan says, "I know how they were defeated in the old myths. I think they can be killed in the same ways. For example, in the story of the Stymphalian birds, the best way to kill them was to scare them with a loud noise, then shoot them down as they fled. It seems that you were extremely lucky there."

"Agreed," says Andromeda. We sit quietly for a while, mulling over all that we had just discovered, and wondering who else knew about the mutts.

Andromeda is the first to break the silence. "You have to tell me how to defeat the hydra."

Johan grimaces. "It's no easy task," he begins. "Every time you cut off a head, nine more grow in its place. What you're supposed to do is take something really hot and cauterize the wound before anything can grow back. You have to do that for each head."

Andromeda's face falls. "It's so difficult."

Johan nods. "You're better off running for your life."

"This isn't any time to hold on to your humanity," I add. "I understand that you feel responsible for not helping Fabian, but there's one goal at the end of this game, and that's to be the last one standing. At least you didn't have to kill a friend."

Andromeda inhales sharply. After a few seconds she releases her breath and says, "I think I'm going to pick through the weapons."

"That's a good idea," I say. "Maybe we can find some medicine for those gashes on your arms."

"And for your hand," Johan agrees.

Together, we look through the pile of supplies. Every once in a while, I look at my companions. They're good people. The best people. In the very worst of places.


	14. Chapter 14

Andromeda and I find antibiotics and fresh bandages in the pile, as well as a couple of really nice knives for me. Johan scores a slingshot. We also find some food and a water filter which we fill with pond water. Overall, I'm feeling pretty happy with our day, and I'm fishing when Andromeda approaches me with something from the cornucopia. I can't tell what it is, but I discreetly poise my hand to grab my knife just in case she's thinking of trying something on me.

"Relax," she says. Apparently I hadn't been discreet enough. "I'm not trying to kill you. I found something that might be useful." She opens up her hand to show me a needle and thread.

I look quizzically at it. "What for?"

"Your hand. It's bleeding through your bandage," she observes. "You need to stitch it up."

I cringe. This is the last thing I want. "No," I tell her. "That would only make it worse."

"No, it wouldn't," Andromeda argues. "This is quality stuff, right here. Look, I even found this…" she shoves the needle and thread into my arms and plunges her hand into her pocket. A second later, she has dug out a small cylindrical container.

"What is it?" I ask her.

"A numbing cream. You would barely even feel the needle going into your skin."

I think about this. It sounds too good to be true. "What's in it for you?"

Andromeda smiles mischievously. She had a deal on her mind the whole time. "I was hoping if I scratched your back, you'd scratch mine. Or stitch, more accurately." She rolls her sleeves up far enough that I see her full forearms and elbows. Her cuts look worse than yesterday. Through closer inspection, I can see that an infection is setting in. I cringe, knowing what I have to do.

"Okay," I agree, counting her cuts. There are seven altogether. About half of them are even deeper than mine. "You first."

We use some filtered pond water to try to rinse off the dried blood, and then rub antibacterial salve in the wounds. Finally, I dab a little bit of the numbing cream onto her skin.

"Do you feel numb?" I ask.

"A little," she answers. This is what I feared. If I use too much of this stuff on her arms, there won't be any left for me. Still, I can't bear the thought of stitching these seven gashes without it. I rub it up and down her forearms as much for myself as for her. There's hardly any left when we're through. Still, I make sure I'm thorough. This way she doesn't squirm when I sew her up. That would only mutilate her arms further.

"My turn," I say when it's all finished. Andromeda tries moving her hands around, but it seems that they are too numb for it.

"I can't do it, I would slip too much. I would hurt you. We'll have to wait until I regain feeling."

"There's no time for that," I argue. "I need to get this done before infection sets in, and night is falling. Soon enough, there won't be enough light. Besides, the career pack will probably be on their way here now."

"Fine," says Andromeda. "Get Johan to do it."

I look over to the cornucopia. Johan is taking a nap inside. Part of me wants to say he can't. I don't want him to. This is irrational, though.

"Okay," I agree. "If you wake him up, I'll start washing my hand off."

Andromeda nods, and in a couple of minutes, Johan is beside me, ready to fix me up.

"I don't know why you didn't ask me to do this in the first place. I'm the one that stabbed you. I should be the one to stitch your cut," he says, reaching for the numbing cream. He puts his pointer finger in the container, but it comes out with barely anything on it.

"Did you use it all up on me?" Andromeda asks angrily.

"Your cuts are worse than mine," I defend myself. "I needed you to be completely still or you'd just tear your arms apart. So, yeah. I used it all."

"You idiot," she says. She looks like she wants to slap me over the head, but she doesn't have much control over anything beyond her elbows, so the most she can do is flap her arms like a penguin at me. "What if we needed that for something else?"

"I've already explained myself. There's nothing that can be done for it now. Why don't you do something useful, like look for more,'' I tell her. I can't believe she's actually angry at me for this. I just sacrificed my own comfort for her sake. This means that when Johan stitches my cut, it is going to be extremely painful. Andromeda's cheeks flush. Instead of yelling, she turns around and stalks off, clearly wondering when she'll have her first chance to kill me.

I steel myself, and look at Johan expectantly.

"What?" he says. I nod down at the needle. Johan's eyes widen. "You can't actually expect me to do this now."

"Of course I expect you to do this now," I say. "The sooner the better."

"No," he says.

"Johan, please," I beg him. "If you don't do this, I'll do it myself and mess it all up. Help me."

Johan's face sinks. I feel sorry for making him do this, but he deserves it, really. After all, he did stab me.

He studies my face for a second. "Let's do this," he sighs.

"Thank you," I tell him earnestly. I want him to know that I'm grateful now, before the needle has pierced my skin. "Let's get as much of that stuff on my skin as possible."

Johan picks the container with the paste back up and he tilts the top toward me. It's scraped almost completely clean. Still, I take as much as I can manage and rub it in between my thumb and pointer finger. The wound at least feels a little cooler, I think. "Now," I instruct him. "Do it as fast as possible."

He digs the needle into my skin and pulls it out the other side of my hand. My head starts to feel light and I want to cry out, but I don't. Instead, I lie to myself. Some part of my brain thinks that if I imagine that I have felt worse pain, it doesn't actually hurt so much. I'm being a wimp. The odds are that I'll probably get impaled, lose a limb, or break some bones even in the best case scenarios here. I need to get used to this.

That's when the needle goes in again. Then, again. Johan is sure to stitch it up tight, so I lose count by the time he's wrapping me up in fresh bandages. I wipe the tears from my eyes with shaking hands and thank him for his help.

"We should think about setting up camp out of sight. We can eat the fish raw so we don't have to light a fire," I say.

Johan looks at me with pity. I hope he realizes that if he talks about my hand I'll only break down. I don't want to look weak. He seems to catch on.

"Let's see if Andromeda found some sleeping bags," he says. I remember that between the two off us there's only one. I'm glad Johan brought this up, because I would really rather not have to share.

We walk over to the pile of supplies. It seems wrong to leave all of these provisions here, especially when the Careers left them unguarded. How many more chances like this will come? I decide to stuff my backpack with anything that will fit—a couple of cans of soup, a rope, a small tarp, and a pair of night-vision glasses. Andromeda had only found one other sleeping bag, which is now nestled in her pack. This is okay, though, because only two of the three of us will ever be sleeping at one time. Still, I find a thick pair of gloves, and I decide that they're worth hanging on to.

"We've wasted enough time here," Andromeda says after the whole pile has been picked of the items we think are most important.

I string my fish together and hang them on a long stick, which I rest on my shoulder so that the fish swing around behind me when I walk. Hopefully, nothing with a strong nose will be anywhere near here, because this leaves a scent trail that I can almost see. It's regrettable, but necessary.

"Right," I say. "Let's get moving."

We set off toward the woods again. After about half an hour, we think we've found a place hidden well enough in the trees that it isn't visible from the cornucopia, but we'll be able to stay in.

"Alright, who's slept since the Game started?" Andromeda asks.

"I have," Johan says. "I can take first watch."

He climbs up onto a tree and settles in wearing a hat he found at the cornucopia.

"Here, take these as well," I say, handing up the gloves I had just packed away. "Since you don't have a sleeping bag."

"Thanks, Isla," he replies. It's these little kindnesses that we can do for one another that say the most. When they stop, I'll know that Johan is thinking about either ditching me or finding a way to secure my death. That's when I plan to run.

I look down at my wounded hand, freshly stitched and bandaged. Then I look up at his hands, now toasty warm inside my gloves. So far, we're taking care of each other. For some reason, that time when I told Finnick I wanted to live flashes into my head. I wonder what he would say about how safe I feel with Johan watching my back. Would be approve that I have a trusted ally? Or would he say I've let my guard down? The latter explanation makes me shudder. In the end, I want Johan to die. And Andromeda. And everyone else in this arena. If I am to live, they must all die.


End file.
